or my
behavior--to say I was the talk of Venice. <i>She!</i> Of course I know what
she means. She thinks if I am divorced she will lose her allowance--and
she can't bear the thought of that, though Markham Warington is quite
rich. My heart just <i>boiled</i> within me. I told her it is the poison of
her life that works in me, and that whatever I do, <i>she</i> has no right to
reproach me. Then she cried--and I was like ice--and at last she went.
Warington, good fellow, has written to me, and asked to see me. But what
is the use?

"I know you'll leave me the L500 a year that was settled on me. It'll be
so good for me to be poor--and dressed in serge--and trying to do
something else with these useless hands than writing books that break
your heart. I am giving away all my smart clothes. Blanche is going
home. Oh, William, William! I'm going to shut this, and it's like the
good-bye of death--a mean and ugly--<i>death</i>.

"... Later. They have just brought me a note from Danieli's. So Margaret
did write to you, and your mother has come. Why did you send her,
William? She doesn't love me--and I shall only stab and hurt her. Though
I'll try not--for your sake."

Two days later Ashe received almost by the same post which brought him
the letter from Kitty, just quoted, the following letter from his
mother:

"My DEAREST WILLIAM,--I have seen Kitty. With some difficulty she
consented to let me go and see her yesterday evening about nine
o'clock.

"I arrived between six and seven, having travelled straight through
without a break, except for an hour or two at Milan, and
immediately on arriving I sent a note to Margaret French. She came
in great distress, having just had a fresh scene with Kitty. Oh, my
dear William, her report could not well be worse. Since she wrote
to us Kitty seems to have thrown over all precautions. They used to
meet in churches or galleries, and go out for long days in the
gondola or a fishing-boat together, and Kitty would come home alone
and lie on the sofa through the evening, almost without speaking
or moving. But lately he comes in with her, and stays hours,
reading to her, or holding her hand, or talking to her in a low
voice, and Margaret cannot stop it.

"Yet she has done her best, poor girl! Knowing what we all knew
last year, it filled her with terror when she first discovered that
he was in Venice a