"Well, this is all very surprising," said Ashe, "considering that four
months ago I did not matter an old shoe to anybody."
"That was your own fault. You took no trouble. And besides--there was
your poor brother in the way."
Ashe's brow contracted.
"No, that he never was," he said, with energy. "Freddy was never in
anybody's way--least of all in mine."
"You know what I mean," she said, hastily. "And you know what friends he
and I were--poor Freddy! But, after all, the world's the world."
"Yes--we all grow on somebody's grave," said Ashe. Then, just as she
became conscious that she had jarred upon him, and must find a new
opening, he himself found it. "Tell me!" he said, bending forward with a
sudden alertness--"who is that lady?"
He pointed out a little figure in white, sitting in the opening of the
second drawing-room; a very young girl apparently, surrounded by a group
of men.
"Ah!" said Madame d'Estrees--"I was coming to that--that's my girl
Kitty--"
"Lady Kitty!" said Ashe, in amazement. "She's left school? I thought she
was quite a little thing."
"She's eighteen. Isn't she a darling? Don't you think her very pretty?"
Ashe looked a moment.
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