Lady Grosville hesitated a moment, then stuck to her colors.
"You shouldn't go to such a house," she said, boldly—"I suppose I may say that without offence, William, as I've known you from a boy."
"Say anything you like, my dear Lady Grosville! So you—believe evil things—of Madame d'Estrées?"
His tone was light, but his eyes sought the distant door, as though invoking some fellow-guest to appear and protect him.
Lady Grosville did not answer. Ashe's look returned to her, and he was startled by the expression of her face. He had always known and unwillingly admired her for a fine Old Testament Christian, one from whom the language of the imprecatory Psalms with regard to her enemies, personal and political, might have flowed more naturally than from any other person he knew, of the same class and breeding. But this loathing—this passion of contempt—this heat of memory!—these were new indeed, and the fire of them transfigured the old, gray face.
"I have known a fair number of bad people," said Lady Grosville, in a low voice—"and a good many wicked women. But for meanness and vileness combined, the things I know of the woman who was Blackwater's wife have no equal in my experience!"
There was a moment's pause. Then Ashe said, in a voice as serious as her own:
"I am sorry to hear you say that, partly because I like Madame d'Estrées, and partly—because—I was particularly attracted by Lady Kitty."
Lady Grosville looked up sharply. "Don't marry her, William!—don't marry her! She comes of a bad stock."
Ashe recovered his gayety.