Kitty raised her head to reply. But the Dean checked her. Advancing a step or two, he saluted her again—profoundly.
"Dear Lady Kitty!—dear bringer of light and ambrosia!—rest, and good-night! Your guests thank you by me, with all their hearts. You have been the life of their day, the spirit of their mirth. Good-night to Hebe!—and three cheers for Lady Kitty!"
Eddie Helston led them, and they rang against the old house. Kitty with a fluttering smile kissed her hand for thanks, and the Dean saw her look round—dart a swift glance at Ashe. He stood against the window-frame, in shadow, motionless, his arms folded.
Then suddenly Kitty sprang forward.
"Give me that lamp!" she said to the young footman behind her.
And in a second she had leaped upon the low wall of the terrace and on the vacant pedestal. The lad to whom she had spoken lost his head and obeyed her. He raised the lamp. She stooped and took it. Ashe, who was now standing in the open window with his back to the terrace, turned round, saw, and rushed forward.
"Kitty!—put it down!"
"Lady Kitty!" cried the Dean, in dismay, while all behind him held their breath.
"Stand back!" said Kitty, "or I shall drop it!" She held up the lamp, straight and steady. Ashe paused—in an agony of doubt what to do, his whole soul concentrated on the slender arm and on the brightly burning lamp.
"If you make me speeches," said Kitty, "I must reply, mustn't I? (Keep back, William!—I'm all right.) Hebe thanks you, please—mille fois! She herself hasn't been happy—and she's afraid she hasn't been good! N'importe! It's all done—and finished. The play's over!—and the lights go out!"