vault. He had
passed away in the spring, full of years and honors, leaving Cliffe some
money. The path was clear. As for the escapade in the Balkans, Geoffrey
was, of course, tired of it. A sensational book, hurried out to meet the
public appetite for horrors--and the pursuance of his intrigue with Lady
Kitty Ashe--Mary was calmly certain that these were now his objects. He
was, no doubt, writing his book and meeting Kitty where he could. Ashe
would soon have to go home. And then! As if that girl Margaret French
could stop it!

Well, William had only got his deserts! But as her thoughts passed from
Kitty or Cliffe to William Ashe, their quality changed. Hatred and
bitterness, scorn or wounded vanity, passed into something gentler. She
fell into recollections of Ashe as he had appeared on that bygone
afternoon in May when he came back triumphant from his election, with
the world before him. If he had never seen Kitty Bristol!--

"I should have made him a good wife," she said to herself. "<i>I</i> should
have known how to be proud of him."

And there emerged also the tragic consciousness that if the fates had
given him to her she might have been another woman--taught by happiness,
by love, by motherhood.

It was that little, heartless creature who had snatched them both from
her--William and Geoffrey Cliffe--the higher and the lower--the man who
might have ennobled her--and the man, half charlatan, half genius, whom
she might have served and raised, by her fortune and her abilities. Her
life might have been so full, so interesting! And it was Kitty that had
made it flat, and cold, and futureless.

Poor William! Had he really liked her, in those boy-and-girl days? She
dreamed over their old cousinly relations--over the presents he had
sometimes given her.

Then a thought, like a burning arrow, pierced her. Her hands locked,
straining one against the other. If this intrigue were indeed
renewed--if Geoffrey succeeded in tempting Kitty from her husband--why
then--then--

She shivered before the images that were passing through her mind, and,
rising, she put away her letters and rang for the waiter, to order
dinner.

"Where shall we go?" said Kitty, languidly, putting down the French
novel she was reading.

* * * * *

"Mr. Ashe suggested San Lazzaro." Margaret looked up from her writing as
Kitty moved towards her. "The rain seems to have all cleared off."

"Well, I'm sure it doesn'