She
was tired to-night."
"Well, I don't want to flatter you, my dear!" said the old man,
testily, "but I thought it was pathetic--the way in which Ashe enjoyed
your conversation. It showed he didn't get much of it at home."
Mary smiled uncertainly. Her whole nature was still aglow from that
contact with Ashe's delightful personality. After months of depression
and humiliation, her success with him had somehow restored those
illusions on which cheerfulness depends.
How ill Kitty looked--and how conscious! Mary was impetuously certain
that Kitty had betrayed her knowledge of Cliffe's presence in Venice;
and equally certain that William knew nothing. Poor William!
Well, what can you expect of such a temperament--such a race? Mary's
thoughts travelled confusedly towards--and through--some big and
dreadful catastrophe.
And then? After it?
It seemed to her that she was once more in the Park Lane drawing-room;
the familiar Morris papers and Burne-Jones drawings surrounded her; and
she and Elizabeth Tranmore sat, hand in hand, talking of William--a
William once more free, after much folly and suffering, to reconstruct
his life.
Pages:
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528