If these precious sheets ever appeared, Ashe's position would certainly be shaken. Poor wretch!—endeavoring to pursue a serious existence, yoked to such an impish sprite as this! His own fault, after all. That first night, at Madame d'Estrées', was not her madness written in her eyes?
"Now tell me, Lady Kitty"—he roused himself to look at her with some attention—"what do you want me to do?"
"To find me a publisher, and"—she stooped towards him with a laughing shyness—"to get me some money."
"Money!"
"I've been so awfully extravagant lately," said Kitty, frankly. "Something really will have to be done. And the book's worth some money, isn't it?"
"A good deal," said Darrell. Then he added, with emphasis—"I really can't be responsible for it in any way, Lady Kitty."
"Of course not. I will never, never say I told you! But, you see, I'm not literary—I don't know in the least how to set about it. If you would just put me in communication?"
Darrell pondered. None of the well-known publishers, of course, would look at it. But there were plenty of people who would—and give Lady Kitty a large sum of money for it, too.
What part, however, could he—Darrell—play in such a transaction?
"I am bound to warn you," he said, at last, looking up, "that your husband will probably strongly disapprove this book, and that it may do him harm."