"Oh, I know it's hard to leave the husband toiling in town!" said his companion, who, as the daughter, wife, and mother of politicians, had had a long experience of official life.
Ashe glanced at her—at her face moulded by kind and scrupulous living—with a sudden relief from tension. Clearly no gossip had reached her. He lingered beside her, for the sheer pleasure of talking to her. But their tête-à-tête was soon interrupted by the approach of Lady Parham, with a daughter—a slim and silent girl, to whom, it was whispered, her mother was giving "a last chance" this season, before sending her into the country as a failure, and bringing out her younger sister.
Lady Parham greeted the hostess with effusion. It was a rich house, and these small, informal dances were said to be more helpful to matrimonial development than larger affairs. Then she perceived Ashe, and her whole manner changed. There was a very evident bristling, and she gave him a greeting deliberately careless.
"Confound the woman!" thought Ashe, and his own pride rose.
"Working as hard as usual, Lady Parham?" he asked her, with a smile.
"If you like to put it so," was the stiff reply. "There is, of course, a good deal of going out."
"I hope, if I may say so, you don't allow Lord Parham to do too much of it."
"Lord Parham never was better in his life," said Lord Parham's spouse, with the air of putting down an impertinence.
"That's good news. I must say when I saw him this afternoon I thought he seemed to be feeling his work a good deal."
"Oh, he's worried," said Lady Parham, sharply. "Worried about a good many things." She turned suddenly, and looked at her companion—an insolent and deliberate look.