Her voice, which was very quiet, gave Ashe intolerable pain.
"You poor, tired, starved child," he said, kneeling down beside her. "Put your arms round my neck. Let me carry you up-stairs."
With a sob she did as she was told. Ashe's library a comparatively late addition to the rambling, old-fashioned house, communicated by a small staircase at the back with his dressing-room above. He lifted the small figure with ease, and half-way up-stairs he impetuously kissed the delicate cheek.
"I'm glad you're not Polly Lyster, darling!"
Kitty laughed through her tears. Presently he deposited her on the large sofa in her own room, and stood beside her, panting a little.
"It's all very well," said Kitty, as she nestled down among the pillows, "but we're none of us feathers!"
Her eyes were beginning to recover a little of their sparkle. She looked at him with attention.
"You look horribly tired. What—what did you do—last night?" She turned away from him.
"I sat up reading—then went to sleep down-stairs. I thought the coach had come to grief, and you were somewhere with the Alcots."
"If I had known that," she murmured, "I might have gone to sleep. Oh, it was so horrible—the little stuffy room, and the dirty blankets." She gave a shiver of disgust. "There was a poor baby, too, with whooping-cough. Lucky I had some money. I gave the woman a sovereign. But she wasn't at all nice—she never smiled once. I know she thought I was a bad lot."