The Marriage of William Ashe. Mrs. Humphry Ward

with a certain calculated wildness around her small face, was surmounted by a large scarlet butterfly which shone defiantly against the dark background of books.

      "Kitty!" said Lady Grosville, advancing indignantly, "what a dreadful noise! Pray give the dog to Parkin at once."

      Lady Kitty only held the struggling animal tighter.

      "Please, Aunt Lina!—I'm afraid he'll bite! But he'll be quite good with me."

      "Why did you bring him, Kitty? We can't have such a creature at dinner!" said Lady Grosville, angrily.

      Lord Grosville advanced behind his wife.

      "How do you do, Kitty? Hadn't you better put down the dog and come and be introduced to Mr. Rankine, who is to take you in to dinner?"

      Lady Kitty shook her fair head, but advanced, still clinging to the dog, gave a smile and a nod to Ashe, and a bow to the young Tory member presented to her.

      "You don't mind him?" she said, a flash of laughter in her dark eyes. "We'll manage him between us, won't we?"

      The young man, dazzled by her prettiness and her strangeness, murmured a hopeful assent. Lord Grosville, with the air of a man determined on dinner though the skies fall, offered his arm to Lady Edith Manley, the wife of the cabinet minister, and made for the dining-room. The stream of guests followed; when suddenly the puppy, perceiving on the floor a ball of wool which had rolled out of Lady Grosville's work-table, escaped in an ecstasy of mischief from his mistress's arm and flew upon the ball. Kitty rushed after him; the wool first unrolled, then caught; the table overturned and all its contents were flung pell-mell in the path of Lady Grosville, who, on the arm of the amused and astonished minister, was waiting in restrained fury till her guests should pass.

      "I shall never get over this," said Lady Kitty, as she leaned back in her chair, still panting, and quite incapable of eating any of the foods that were being offered to her in quick succession.

      "I don't know that you deserve to," said Ashe, turning a face upon her which was as grave as he could make it. The attention of every one else round the room was also in truth occupied with his companion. There was, indeed, a general buzz of conversation and a general pretence that Lady Kitty's proceedings might now be ignored. But in reality every guest, male or female, kept a stealthy watch on the red butterfly and the sparkling face beneath it; and Ashe was well aware of it.

      "I vow it was not my fault," said Kitty, with dignity. "I was not allowed to have the dog I should have had. You'd never have found a dog of St. Hubert condescending to bedroom slippers! But as I had to have a dog—and Colonel Warington gave me this one three days ago—and he has already ruined half maman's things, and no one could manage him but me, I just had to bring him, and trust to Providence."

      "I have been here a good many times," said Ashe, "and I never yet saw a dog in the sanctuary. Do you know that Pitt once wrote a speech in the library?"

      "Did he? I'm sure it never made such a stir as Ponto did." Kitty's face suddenly broke into laughter, and she hid it a moment in her hands.

      "You brazen it out," said Ashe; "but how are you going to appease Lady Grosville?"

      Kitty ceased to laugh. She drew herself up, and looked seriously, observantly at her aunt.

      "I don't know. But I must do it somehow. I don't want any more worries."

      So changed were her tone and aspect that Ashe turned a friendly examining look upon her.

      "Have you been worried?" he said, in a lower voice.

      She shrugged her shoulders and made no reply. But presently she impatiently reclaimed his attention, snatching him from the lady he had taken in to dinner, with no scruple at all.

      "Will you come a walk with me to-morrow morning?"

      "Proud," said Ashe. "What time?"

      "As soon as we can get rid of these people," she said, her eye running round the table. Then as it paused and lingered on the face of Mary Lyster opposite, she abruptly asked him who that lady might be.

      Ashe informed her.

      "Your cousin?" she said, looking at him with a slight frown. "Your cousin? I don't—well, I don't think I shall like her."

      "That's a great pity," said Ashe.

      "For me?" she said, distrustfully.

      "For both, of course! My mother's very fond of Miss Lyster. She's often with us."

      "Oh!" said Kitty, and looked again at the face opposite. Then he heard her say behind her fan, half to herself and half to him:

      "She does not interest me in the least! She has no ideas! I'm sure she has no ideas. Has she?"

      She turned abruptly to Ashe.

      "Every one calls her very clever."

      Kitty looked contempt.

      "That's nothing to do with it. It's not the clever people who have ideas."

      Ashe bantered her a little on the meaning of her words, till he presently found that she was too young and unpractised to be able to take his thrusts and return them, with equanimity. She could make a daring sally or reply; but it was still the raw material of conversation; it wanted ease and polish. And she was evidently conscious of it herself, for presently her cheek flushed and her manner wavered.

      "I suppose you—everybody—thinks her very agreeable?" she said, sharply, her eyes returning to Miss Lyster.

      "She is a most excellent gossip," said Ashe. "I always go to her for the news."

      Kitty glanced again.

      "I can see that already she detests me."

      "In half an hour?"

      The girl nodded.

      "She has looked at me twice—about. But she has made up her mind—and she never changes." Then with an abrupt alteration of note she looked round the room. "I suppose your English dining-rooms are all like this? One might be sitting in a hearse. And the pictures—no! Quelles horreurs!"

      She raised her shoulders again impetuously, frowning at a huge full-length opposite of Lord Grosville as M.F.H., a masterpiece indeed of early Victorian vulgarity.

      Then suddenly, hastily, with that flashing softness which so often transformed her expression, she turned towards him, trying to make amends.

      "But the library—that was bien—ah! tr-rès, tr-rès bien!"

      Her r's rolled a little as she spoke, with a charming effect, and she looked at him radiantly, as though to strike and to make amends were equally her prerogative, and she asked no man's leave.

      "You've not yet seen what there is to see here," said Ashe, smiling. "Look behind you."

      The girl turned her slim neck and exclaimed. For behind Ashe's chair was the treasure of the house. It was a "Dance of Children," by one of the most famous of the eighteenth-century masters. From the dark wall it shone out with a flower-like brilliance, a vision of color and of grace. The children danced through a golden air, their bodies swaying to one of those "unheard melodies" of art, sweeter than all mortal tunes; their delicate faces alive with joy. The sky and grass and trees seemed to caress them; a soft sunlight clothed them; and flowers brushed their feet.

      Kitty turned back again and was silent. Was it Ashe's fancy, or had she grown pale?

      "Did you like it?" he asked her. She turned to him, and for the second time in their acquaintance he saw her eyes floating in tears.

      "It is too beautiful!" she said, with an effort—almost an angry effort. "I don't want to see it again."

      "I thought it would give you pleasure," said Ashe, gently, suddenly conscious of a hope that she was not aware of the slight look of amusement with which Mary Lyster was contemplating them both.

      "So