.

impatiently.

      "Lady Kitty, I don't like to hear you talk like this. It's wild, and it's also—I beg your pardon—"

      "In bad taste?" she said, catching him up breathlessly. "That's what you meant, isn't it? You said it to me before, when I called you handsome."

      "Pshaw!" he said, in vexation. She watched him throw himself back and feel for his cigarette-case; a gesture of her hand gave him leave; she waited, smiling, till he had taken a few calming whiffs. Then she gently moved towards him.

      "Don't be angry with me!" she said, in a sweet, low voice. "Don't you understand how hard it is—to have that nature—and then to come here out of the convent—where one had lived on dreams—and find one's self—"

      She turned her head away. Ashe put down his new-lit cigarette.

      "Find yourself?" he repeated.

      "Everybody scorns me!" she said, her brow drooping.

      Ashe exclaimed.

      "You know it's true. My mother is not received. Can you deny that?"

      "She has many friends," said Ashe.

      "She is not received. When I speak of her no one answers me. Lady Grosville asked me here—me—out of charity. It would be thought a disgrace to marry me—"

      "Look here, Lady Kitty!—"

      "And I"—she wrung her small hands, as though she clasped the necks of her enemies—"I would never look at a man who did not think it the glory of his life to win me. So you see, I shall never marry. But then the dreadful thing is—"

      She let him see a white, stormy face.

      "That I have no loyalty to maman—I—I don't think I even love her."

      Ashe surveyed her gravely.

      "You don't mean that," he said.

      "I think I do," she persisted. "I had a horrid childhood. I won't tell tales; but, you see, I don't know maman. I know the Soeurs much better. And then for some one you don't know—to have to—to have to bear—this horrible thing—"

      She buried her face in her hands. Ashe looked at her in perplexity.

      "You sha'n't bear anything horrible," he said, with energy. "There are plenty of people who will take care of that. Do you mind telling me—have there been special difficulties just lately?"

      "Oh yes," she said, calmly, looking up, "awful! Maman's debts are—well—ridiculous. For that alone I don't think she'll be able to stay in London—apart from—Alice."

      The name recalled all she had just passed through, and her face quivered. "What will she do?" she said, under her breath. "How will she punish us?—and why?—for what?"

      Her dread, her ignorance, her fierce, bruised vanity, her struggling pride, her helplessness, appealed amazingly to the man beside her. He began to talk to her very gently and wisely, begging her to let the past alone, to think only what could be done to help the present. In the first place, would she not let his mother be of use to her?

      He could answer for Lady Tranmore. Why shouldn't Lady Kitty spend the summer with her in Scotland? No doubt Madame d'Estrées would be abroad.

      "Then I must go with her," said Kitty.

      Ashe hesitated.

      "Of course, if she wishes it."

      "But I don't know that she will wish it. She is not very fond of me," said Kitty, doubtfully. "Yes, I would like to stay with Lady Tranmore. But will your cousin be there?"

      "Miss Lyster?"

      Kitty nodded.

      "How can I tell? Of course, she is often there."

      "It is quite curious," said Kitty, after reflection, "how we dislike each other. And it is so odd. You know most people like me!"

      She looked up at him without a trace of coquetry, rather with a certain timidity that feared possible rebuff. "That's always been my difficulty," she went on, "till now. Everybody spoils me. I always get my own way. In the convent I was indulged and flattered, and then they wondered that I made all sorts of follies. I want a guide—that's quite certain—somebody to tell me what to do."

      "I would offer myself for the post," said Ashe, "but that I feel perfectly sure that you would never follow anybody's advice in anything."

      "Yes, I would," she said, wistfully. "I would—"

      Ashe's face changed.

      "Ah, if you would—"

      She sprang up. "Do you see "—she pointed to some figures on a distant path—"they are coming back from church. You understand?—nobody must know about my sister. It will come round to Aunt Lina, of course; but I hope it'll be when I'm gone. If she knew now, I should go back to London to-day."

      Ashe made it clear to her that he would be discretion itself. They left the bench, but, as they began to ascend the steps, Kitty turned back.

      "I wish I hadn't seen her," she said, in a miserable tone, the tears flooding once more into her eyes.

      Ashe looked at her with great kindness, but without speaking. The moment of sharp pain passed, and she moved on languidly beside him. But there was an infection in his strong, handsome presence, and her smiles soon came back. By the time they neared the house, indeed, she seemed to be in wild spirits again.

      Did he know, she asked him, that three more guests were coming that afternoon—Mr. Darrell, Mr. Louis Harman, and—Mr. Geoffrey Cliffe? She laid an emphasis on the last name, which made Ashe say, carelessly:

      "You want to meet him so much?"

      "Of course. Doesn't all the world?"

      Ashe replied that he could only answer for himself, and as far as he was concerned he could do very well without Cliffe's company at all times.

      Whereupon Kitty protested with fire that other men were jealous of such a famous person because women liked him—because—

      "Because the man's a coxcomb and the women spoil him?"

      "A coxcomb!"

      Kitty was up in arms.

      "Pray, is he not a great traveller?—a very great traveller?" she asked, with indignation.

      "Certainly, by his own account."

      "And a most brilliant writer?"

      "Macaulayese," said Ashe, perversely, "and not very good at that."

      Kitty was at first struck dumb, and then began a voluble protest against unfairness so monstrous. Did not all intelligent people read and admire? It was mere jealousy, she repeated, to deny the gentleman's claims.

      Ashe let her talk and quote and excite herself, applying every now and then a little sly touch of the goad, to make her still run on, and so forget the tragic hour which had overshadowed her. And meanwhile all he cared for was to watch the flashing of her face and eyes, and the play of the wind in her hair, and the springing grace with which she moved. Poor child!—it all came back to that—poor child!—what was to be done with her?

      At luncheon—the Sunday luncheon—which still, at Grosville Park, as in the early Victorian days of Lord Grosville's mother, consisted of a huge baronial sirloin to which all else upon the varied table appeared as appurtenance and appendage, Ashe allowed himself the inward reflection that the Grosville Park Sundays were degenerating. Both Lord and Lady Grosville had been good hosts in their day; and the downrightness of the wife had been as much to the taste of many as the agreeable gossip of the husband. But on this occasion both were silent and absent-minded. Lady Grosville showed no generalship in placing her guests; the wrong people sat next to each other, and the whole party dragged—without a leader.

      And