Not that there was any avoiding of topics in this English case. Ashe had no sooner slipped into his seat than he began to banter Cliffe upon a letter of a supporter which had appeared in that morning's _Times_. It was written by Lord S., who had played the part of public "fool" for half a generation. To be praised by him was disaster, and Cliffe's flush showed at once that the letter had caused him acute annoyance. He and Ashe fell upon the writer, vying with each other in anecdotes that left him presently close-plucked and bare. "That's all very well," said Kitty, amid the laughter which greeted the last tale, "but he never told _you_ how he proposed to the second Lady S." And lifting a red strawberry, which she held poised against her red, laughing lips, she waited a moment--looking round her. "Go on, Kitty," said Ashe, approvingly; "go on." Thus permitted, Kitty gave one of the little "scenes," arranged from some experience of her own, which were very famous among her intimates. Ashe called them her "parlor tricks," and was never tired of making her exhibit them. And now, just as at Grosville Park, she held her audience. She spoke without a halt, her small features answering perfectly to every impulse of her talent, each touch of character or dialogue as telling as a malicious sense of comedy could make it; arms, hands, shoulders all aiding in the final result--a table swept by a very storm of laughter, in the midst of which Kitty quietly finished her strawberry. "Well done, Kitty!" Ashe, who sat opposite to her, stretched his hand across, and patted hers. "Does she love him?" Cliffe asked himself, and could not make up his mind, closely as he tried to observe their relations. He was more and more conscious of the exciting effect she produced on himself, doubly so, indeed, because of that sudden stroke of melancholy wherewith--like a Rembrandt shadow, she had thrown into relief the gayety and frivolity of her ordinary mood.