"Burning a coward in effigy," said Kitty, between her teeth. Ashe thrust his hands into his pockets. "I wish to God you'd forget the creature, instead of flattering him with these attentions!" Kitty made no reply, but as she drew the fire together Ashe captured her hand. "What's he been doing now, Kitty?" "There are his poems," said Kitty, pointing to the chair. "The last one is about me." "May I be allowed to see it?" "It isn't there." "Ah! I see. You've topped the pile with it. With your leave, I'll delay its doom." He snatched the leaf from its stick, and bending down read it by the light of the burning paper. Kitty watched him, frowning, her hand on her hip, the white wrap she wore over her night-dress twining round her in close folds a slender, brooding sorceress, some Canidia or Simaetha, interrupted in her ritual of hate. But Ashe was in no mood for literary reminiscence. His lip was contemptuous, his brow angry as he replaced the leaf in its cleft stick, whither the flames immediately pursued it. "Wretched stuff, and damned impertinence!--that's all there is to say. For Heaven's sake, Kitty, don't let any one suppose you mind the thing--for an instant!" She looked at him with strange eyes. "But if I do mind it?" His face darkened to the shade of hers. "Does that mean--that you still think of him--still wish to see him?" "I don't know," said Kitty, slowly. The fire had died away. Nothing but a few charred remnants remained in the brazier. Ashe lit the gas, and disclosed a tragic Kitty, flushed by the audacity of her last remark. He took her masterfully in his arms. "That was bravado," he said, kissing her. "You love _me_! And I may be a poor stick, but I'm worth a good many Cliffes. Defy me--and I'll write you a better poem, too!" The color leaped afresh in Kitty's cheek. She pushed him away, and, holding him, perused his handsome, scornful face, and all the manly strength of form and attitude. Her own lids wavered. "What a silly scene!" she said, and fell--a little, soft, yielding form--into his arms. XV The church clock of Haggart village had just struck half-past six. A white, sunny mist enwrapped the park and garden. Voices and shouts rang through the mist; little could yet be seen, but the lawns and the park seemed to be pervaded with bustle and preparation, and every now and then as the mist drifted groups of workmen could be distinguished, marquees emerged, flags floated, and carts laden with benches and trestle-tables rumbled slowly over the roads and tracks of the park. The house itself was full of gardeners, arranging banks of magnificent flowers in the hall and drawing-rooms, and superintended by the head gardener, a person of much greater dignity than Ashe himself, who swore at any underling making a noise, as though the slumbers of the "quality" in the big house overhead and the danger of disturbing them were the dearest interests of a burdened life.