e crowded pavement. Kitty followed him
with difficulty, conscious of a magnetism and a force against which she
struggled in vain.

* * * * *

About a week afterwards Kitty shut herself up one evening in her room to
write to Ashe. She had just passed through an agitating conversation
with Margaret French, who had announced her intention of returning to
England at once, alone, if Kitty would not accompany her. Kitty's hands
were trembling as she began to write.

* * * * *

"I am glad--oh! so glad, William--that you <i>have</i> withdrawn your
resignation--that people have come forward so splendidly, and <i>made</i> you
withdraw it--that Lord Parham is behaving decently--and that you have
been able to get hold of all those copies of the book. I always hoped it
would not be quite so bad as you thought. But I know you must have gone
through an awful time--and I'm <i>sorry</i>.

"William, I want to tell you something--for I can't go on lying to
you--or even just hiding the truth. I met Geoffrey Cliffe here--before
you left--and I never told you. I saw him first in a gondola the night
of the serenata--and then at the Armenian convent. Do you remember my
hurrying you and Margaret into the garden? That was to escape meeting
him. And that same afternoon when I was in the unused rooms of the
Palazzo Vercelli--the rooms they show to tourists--he suddenly
appeared--and somehow I spoke to him, though I had never meant to do so
again.

"Then when you left me I met him again--that afternoon--and he found out
I was very miserable and made me tell him everything. I know I had no
right to do so--they were your secrets as well as mine. But you know how
little I can control myself--it's wretched, but it's true.

"William, I don't know what will happen. I can't make out from Margaret
whether she has written to you or not--she won't tell me. If she has,
this letter will not be much news to you. But, mind, I write it of my
own free will, and not because Margaret may have forced my hand. I
should have written it anyway. Poor old darling!--she thinks me mad and
bad, and to-night she tells me she can't take the responsibility of
looking after me any longer. Women like her can never understand
creatures like me--and I don't want her to. She's a dear saint, and as
true as steel--not like your Mary Lysters! I could go on my knees to
her. But she can't control or save me. Not even y