ing--in which Harman had spoken, annoyed him, and he passed on
without taking any notice.

"Lady Kitty," said Warington, "Mr. Ashe wishes to be presented to you.
He is an old friend of your mother's. Congratulate him--he has just got
into Parliament."

Lady Kitty drew herself up, and all trace of the look which Ashe had
observed disappeared. She bowed, not carelessly as she had bowed to
Darrell, but with a kind of exaggerated stateliness, not less girlish.

"I never congratulate anybody," she said, shaking her head, "till I know
them."

Ashe opened his eyes a little.

"How long must I wait?" he said, smiling, as he drew a chair beside her.

"That depends. Are you difficult to know?" She looked up at him
audaciously, and he on his side could not take his eyes from her, so
singular was the small, sparkling face. The hair and skin were very
fair, like her mother's, the eyes dark and full of fire, the neck most
daintily white and slender, the figure undeveloped, the feet and hands
extremely small. But what arrested him was, so to speak, the embodied
contradiction of the personality--as between the wild intelligence of
the eyes and the extreme youth, almost childishness, of the rest.

He asked her if she had ever known any one confess to being easy, to
know.

"Well, I'm easy to know," she said, carelessly, leaning back; "but,
then, I'm not worth knowing."

"Is one allowed to find out?"

"Oh yes--of course! Do you know--when you were over there, I <i>willed</i>
that you should come and talk to me, and you came. Only," she sat up
with animation, and began to tick off her sentences on her
fingers--"Don't ask me how long I've been in town. Don't ask where I was
in Paris. Don't inquire whether I like balls! You see, I warn you at
once"--she looked up frankly--"that we mayn't lose time."

"Well, then, I don't see how I'm ever to find out," said Ashe, stoutly.

"Whether I'm worth knowing?" She considered, then bent forward eagerly.
"Look here! I'll just tell you everything in a lump, and then that'll
do--won't it? Listen. I'm just eighteen. I was sent to the Soeurs
Blanches when I was thirteen--the year papa died. I <i>didn't</i> like
papa--I'm very sorry, but I didn't! However, that's by-the-way. In all
those years I have only seen maman once--she doesn't like children. But
my aunt Grosville has some French relations--very, <i>very</i> 'comme il
faut,' you understand--and I used to go and stay with them for the
holi