to whom Italy had become a second country, had settled in a
villa near Treviso, where she occupied herself with a lace school for
women and girls.

The mention of her sister threw Kitty into what seemed to be a
disagreeable reverie. The flush brought by the sea-wind faded. Ashe
looked at her with anxiety.

"You have done too much, Kitty--as usual!"

His voice was almost angry.

She shrugged her shoulders.

"What does it matter? You know very well it would be much better for you
if--"

"If what?"

"If I followed Harry." The words were just breathed, and her eyes shrank
from meeting his. Ashe, on the other hand, turned and looked at her
steadily.

"Are you quite determined I sha'n't get <i>any</i> joy out of my holiday?"

She shook her head uncertainly. Then, almost immediately, she began to
chatter to Margaret French about the sights of the lagoon, with her
natural trenchancy and fun. But her hand, hidden under the folds of her
black cloak, still clung to William's.

"It is her illness," he said to himself, "and the loss of the child."

And at the remembrance of his little son, a wave of sore yearning filled
his own heart. Deep under the occupations and interests of the mind lay
this passionate regret, and at any moment of pause or silence its
"buried life" arose and seized him. But he was a busy politician,
absorbed even in these days of holiday by the questions and problems of
the hour. And Kitty was a delicate woman--with no defence against the
torture of grief.

He thought of those first days after the child's death, when in spite of
the urgency of the doctors it had been impossible to keep the news from
Kitty; of the ghastly effect of it upon nerves and brain already
imperilled by causes only half intelligible; of those sudden flights
from her nurses, when the days of convalescence began, to the child's
room, and, later, to his grave. There was stinging pain in these
recollections. Nor was he, in truth, much reassured by his wife's more
recent state. It was impossible, indeed, that he should give it the same
constant thought as a woman might--or a man of another and more
emotional type. At this moment, perhaps, he had literally no <i>time</i> for
the subtleties of introspective feeling, even had his temperament
inclined him to them, which was, in truth, not the case. He knew that
Kitty had suddenly and resolutely ceased to talk about the boy, had
thrown herself with the old energy into new pursuits,