Ashe with her.
"Please ask Mr. Ashe if I can see him for a few minutes."
Wilson disappeared, and Lady Tranmore stood motionless, looking round at
William's books and tables. She loved everything that his hand had
touched, every sign of his character--the prize books of his college
days, the pictures on the wall, many of which had descended from his
Eton study, the photographs of his favorite hunter, the drawing she
herself had made for him of his first pony.
On his writing-table lay a despatch-box from the Foreign Office. Lady
Tranmore turned away from it. It reminded her intolerably of the shock
and defeat of the day before. During the past six months she had become
more rejoicingly conscious than ever before of his secret, deepening
ambition, and her own heart burned with the smart of his disappointment.
No one else, however, should guess at it through her. No sooner had she
received his letter from the club than, after many weeks of withdrawal
from society, she had forced herself to go to the Holland House party,
that no one might say she hid herself, that no one might for an instant
suppose that any hostile act of such a man as Lord Parham, or any malice
of that low-minded woman, could humiliate her son or herself.
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