Of course there might have been an accident; her thoughts might be all mistake and illusion. But Lady Tranmore hardly allowed herself to encourage the alternative of hope. It was like Kitty's audacity to have come back. Incredible!—unfathomable!—like all she did.
"Her ladyship says, my lady, would you please go up to her room?"
The message was given in Blanche's timid voice. Lady Tranmore started, looked at the girl, longed to question her, and had not the courage. She followed mechanically, and in silence. Could she, must she face it? Yes—for her son's sake. She prayed inwardly that she might meet the ordeal before her with Christian strength and courage.
The door opened. She saw two figures in the pretty, bright-colored room, William sat astride upon a chair in front of Kitty, who, like some small mother-bird, hovered above him, holding what seemed to be a tiny strip of bread-and-butter, which she was dropping with dainty deliberation into his mouth. Her face, in spite of the red and swollen eyes, was alive with fun, and Ashe's laugh reflected hers. The domesticity, the intimate affection of the scene—before these things Elizabeth Tranmore stood gasping.
"Dearest mother!" cried Ashe, starting up.
Kitty turned. At sight of Lady Tranmore she hung back; her smiles departed; her lip quivered.
"William!"—she pursued him and touched him on the shoulder. "I—I can't—I'm afraid. If mother ever means to speak to me again—come and tell me."
And, hiding her face, Kitty escaped like a whirlwind. The dressing-room door closed behind her, and mother and son were left alone.
"Mother!" said Ashe, coming up to her gayly, both hands out-stretched. "Ask me nothing, dear. Kitty has been a silly child—but things will go better now. And as for the Parhams—what does it matter?—come and help me send them to the deuce!"