d
the almost personal duel between the two men--a duel of letters,
telegrams, or speeches, which had been lately carried on in the sight of
Europe and America. For Ashe now represented the Foreign Office in the
House of Commons, and had been much badgered by the Tory extremists who
followed Cliffe.

Naturally, being Englishmen, they met as though nothing had happened and
they had parted the day before in Pall Mall. A "Hullo, Ashe!" and
"Hullo, Cliffe! glad to see you back again," completed the matter. The
Dean enjoyed it as a specimen of English "phlegm," recalling with
amusement his last visit to the Paris of the Second Empire--Paris torn
between government and opposition, the <i>salons</i> of the one divided from
the <i>salons</i> of the other by a sulphurous gulf, unless when some Lazarus
of the moment, some well-known novelist or poet, cradled in the
Abraham's bosom of Liberalism, passed amid shrieks of triumph or howls
of treason into the official inferno.

Not that there was any avoiding of topics in this English case. Ashe had
no sooner slipped into his seat than he began to banter Cliffe upon a
letter of a supporter which had appeared in that morning's <i>Times</i>. It
was written by Lord S., who had played the part of public "fool" for
half a generation. To be praised by him was disaster, and Cliffe's flush
showed at once that the letter had caused him acute annoyance. He and
Ashe fell upon the writer, vying with each other in anecdotes that left
him presently close-plucked and bare.

"That's all very well," said Kitty, amid the laughter which greeted the
last tale, "but he never told <i>you</i> how he proposed to the second Lady
S."

And lifting a red strawberry, which she held poised against her red,
laughing lips, she waited a moment--looking round her. "Go on, Kitty,"
said Ashe, approvingly; "go on."

Thus permitted, Kitty gave one of the little "scenes," arranged from
some experience of her own, which were very famous among her intimates.
Ashe called them her "parlor tricks," and was never tired of making her
exhibit them. And now, just as at Grosville Park, she held her audience.
She spoke without a halt, her small features answering perfectly to
every impulse of her talent, each touch of character or dialogue as
telling as a malicious sense of comedy could make it; arms, hands,
shoulders all aiding in the final result--a table swept by a very storm
of laughter, in the midst of which Kitty quietly f