t Lina?"

Ashe, in his shelter behind Mary Lyster, fell into a silent convulsion
of laughter.

"No, thank you!" said Lady Grosville, hastily. And she rustled away
followed by her daughters.

Kitty came flying into the inner room followed by Cliffe.

"What have I done?" she said, breathlessly, addressing Harman, who rose
to greet her. "Mayn't one play the piano here on Sundays?"

"That depends," said Harman, "on what you play."

"Who made your English Sunday?" said Kitty, impetuously. "Je vous
demande--<i>who</i>?"

She threw her challenge to all the winds of heaven--standing tiptoe, her
hands poised on the back of a chair, the smallest and most delicate of
furies.

"A breath unmakes it, as a breath has made," said Cliffe. "Come and play
billiards, Lady Kitty. You said just now you played."

"Billiards!" said Harman, throwing up his hands. "On Sunday--<i>here</i>?"

"Can they hear the balls?" said Kitty, eagerly, with a gesture towards
the library.

Mary Lyster, who had been perfunctorily looking at a book, laid it down.

"It would certainly greatly distress Lady Grosville," she said, in a
voice studiously soft, but on that account perhaps all the more
significant.

Kitty glanced at Mary, and Ashe saw the sudden red in her cheek. She
turned provokingly to Cliffe. "There's quite half an hour, isn't there,
before one need dress--"

"More," said Cliffe. "Come along."

And he made for the door, which he held open for her. It was now Mary
Lyster's turn to flush--the rebuff had been so naked and unadorned. Ashe
rose as Kitty passed him.

"Why don't you come, too?" she said, pausing. There was a flash from
eyes deep and dark beneath a pair of wilful brows. "Aunt Lina would
never be cross with <i>you</i>!"

"Thank you! I should be delighted to play buffer, but unfortunately I
have some work I must do before dinner."

"Must you?" She looked at him uncertainly, then at Cliffe. In the dusk
of the large, heavily furnished room, the pale yet brilliant gold of her
hair, her white dress, her slim energy and elegance drew all their
eyes--even Mary Lyster's.

"I must," Ashe repeated, smiling. "I am glad your headache is so much
better."

"It is not in the least better!"

"Then you disguise it like a heroine."

He stood beside her, looking down upon her, his height and strength
measured against her smallness. Apparently his amused detachment, the
slight dryness of his tone annoyed her. She made a tart reply a