“I am sure she has got a splitting headache,” said Ashe, boldly.  “And why you and Grosville shouldn’t be as sorry for her as for Lady Alice I can’t imagine. She’s done nothing.”

“No, that’s true,” said Lady Grosville, as she rose.  Then she added:  “I’ll go and see if she has a headache.  You must consult with us, William; you know the mother so well.”

“Oh, I’m no good!” said Ashe, with energy.  “But I’m sure that kindness would pay with Lady Kitty.”

He smiled at her, wishing to Heaven she would go.

Lady Grosville stared.

“I hope we are always kind to her,” she said, with a touch of haughtiness.  And then the library door closed behind her.

* * * * *

“Kindness” was indeed, that afternoon, the order of the day, as from the Grosvilles to Lady Kitty.  Ashe wondered how she liked it.  The girls followed her about with shawls.  Lady Grosville installed her on a sofa in the back drawing-room.  A bottle of sal-volatile appeared, and Caroline Grosville, instead of going twice to Sunday-school, devoted herself to fanning Kitty, though the weather—­which was sunny, with a sharp east wind—­suggested, to Ashe’s thinking, fires rather than fans.

He was himself carried off for the customary Sunday walk, Mr. Kershaw being now determined to claim the sacred rights of the press.  The walkers left the house by a garden door, to reach which they had to pass through the farther drawing-room.  Kitty, a picturesque figure on the sofa, nodded farewell to Ashe, and then, unseen by Caroline Grosville, who sat behind her, shot him a last look which drove him to a precipitate exit lest the inward laugh should out.

The walk through the flat Cambridgeshire country was long and strenuous.  Though for at least half of it the active journalist who was Ashe’s companion conceived the poorest opinion of the new minister.  Ashe knew nothing; had no opinions; cared for nothing, except now and then for the stalking of an unfamiliar bird, or the antics of the dogs, or tales of horse-racing, of which he talked with a fervor entirely denied to those high political topics of which Kershaw’s ardent soul was full.

Again and again did the journalist put them under his nose in their most attractive guise.  In vain; Ashe would have none of them.  Till suddenly a chance word started an Indian frontier question, vastly important, and totally unknown to the English public.  Ashe casually began to talk; the trickle became a stream, and presently he was holding forth with an impetuosity, a knowledge, a matured and careful judgment that fairly amazed the man beside him.

The long road, bordered by the flat fen meadows, the wide silver sky, the gently lengthening day, all passed unnoticed.  The journalist found himself in the grip of a mind—­strong, active, rich.  He gave himself up with docility, yet with a growing astonishment, and when they stood once more on the steps of the house he said to his companion: