Sir Richard and Mary pursued their way through the narrow calles that led to the Piazza. Sir Richard was expatiating on Ashe's folly in marrying such a wife.
"She looks like an actress!—and as to her conversation, she began by telling me outrageous stories and ended by not having a word to say about anything. The bad blood of the Bristols, it seems to me, without their brains."
"Oh no, papa! Kitty is very clever. You haven't heard her recite. She was tired to-night."
"Well, I don't want to flatter you, my dear!" said the old man, testily, "but I thought it was pathetic—the way in which Ashe enjoyed your conversation. It showed he didn't get much of it at home."
Mary smiled uncertainly. Her whole nature was still aglow from that contact with Ashe's delightful personality. After months of depression and humiliation, her success with him had somehow restored those illusions on which cheerfulness depends.
How ill Kitty looked—and how conscious! Mary was impetuously certain that Kitty had betrayed her knowledge of Cliffe's presence in Venice; and equally certain that William knew nothing. Poor William!
Well, what can you expect of such a temperament—such a race? Mary's thoughts travelled confusedly towards—and through—some big and dreadful catastrophe.
And then? After it?
It seemed to her that she was once more in the Park Lane drawing-room; the familiar Morris papers and Burne-Jones drawings surrounded her; and she and Elizabeth Tranmore sat, hand in hand, talking of William—a William once more free, after much folly and suffering, to reconstruct his life....