Kitty was silent. Ashe, looking at her, saw a curious shade of reverie, a kind of dreamy excitement steal over her face.
"Go on, Kitty!" he said, sharply. Then, restraining himself, he added, with all his natural courtesy—"I beg your pardon, Kitty, but the sooner we get through with this the better."
The mist in which her expression had been for a moment wrapped fell away. She flushed deeply.
"I told you I had done nothing vile!" she said, passionately. "Did you believe me?"
Their eyes met in a shock of challenge and reply.
"Those things are not to be asked between you and me," he said, with vehemence, and he held out his hand. She just touched it—proudly. Then she drew a long breath.
"The day was—just like other days. He read me his poems—in a cool place we found under the bank. I thought he was rather absurd now and then—and different from what he had been. He talked of our going away—and his not seeing me—and how lonely he was. And of course I was awfully sorry for him. But it was all right till—"
She paused and looked at Ashe.
"You remember the inn near Hamel Weir—a few miles from Windsor—that lonely little place."
Ashe nodded.