"But every one says—you speak so well on foreign subjects."
"Well, any fool can get up a Blue Book. Only—luckily for me—all the fools don't. That's how I've scored sometimes. Oh! I don't deny that—I've scored!" He thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, his whole tall frame vibrant, as it seemed to her, with will and good-humor.
"And you'll score again," she said, smiling. "You've got a wonderful opportunity, William. That's what the Bishop says."
"Much obliged to him!"
Ashe looked down upon her rather oddly.
"He told me he had never believed you were such an idler as other people thought you—that he felt sure you had great endowments, and that you would use them for the good of your country, and"—she hesitated slightly—"of the Church. I wish you'd talk to him sometimes, William. He sees so clearly."
"Oh! does he?" said Ashe.
Mary had dropped her work, and her face—a little too broad, with features a trifle too strongly marked—was raised towards him. Its pale color had passed into a slight blush. But the more strenuous expression had somehow not added to her charm, and her voice had taken a slightly nasal tone.
Through the mind of William Ashe, as he stood looking down upon her, passed a multitude of flying impressions. He knew perfectly well that Mary Lyster was one of the maidens whom it would be possible for him to marry. His mother had never pressed her upon him, but she would certainly acquiesce. It would have been mere mock modesty on his part not to guess that Mary would probably not refuse him. And she was handsome, well provided, well connected—oppressively so, indeed; a man might quail a little before her relations. Moreover, she and he had always been good friends, even when as a boy he could not refrain from teasing her for a slow-coach. During his electoral weeks in the country the thought of "Polly" had often stolen kindly upon his rare moments of peace. He must marry, of course. There was no particular excitement or romance about it. Now that his elder brother was dead and he had become the heir, it simply had to be done. And Polly was very nice—quite sweet-tempered and intelligent. She looked well, moved well, would fill the position admirably.
Then, suddenly, as these half-thoughts rushed through his brain, a breath of something cold and distracting—a wind from the land of ennui—seemed to blow upon them and scatter them. Was it the mention of the Bishop—tiresome, pompous fellow—or her slightly pedantic tone—or the infinitesimal hint of "management" that her speech implied? Who knows? But in that moment perhaps the scales of life inclined.
"Much obliged to the Bishop," he repeated, walking up and down. "I am afraid, however, I don't take things as seriously as he does. Oh, I hope I shall behave decently—but, good Lord, what a comedy it is! You know the sort of articles"—he turned towards her—"our papers will be writing to-morrow on my appointment. They'll make me out no end of a fine fellow—you'll see! And, of course, the real truth is, as you and I know perfectly well, that if it hadn't been for poor Freddy's death—and mother—and her dinners—and the chaps who come here—I might have whistled for anything of the sort. And then I go down to Ledmenham and stand as a Liberal, and get all the pious Radicals to work for me! It's a humbugging world—isn't it?"
He returned to the fireplace, and stood looking down upon her—grinning.
Mary had resumed her embroidery. She, too, was dimly conscious of something disappointing.
"Of course, if you choose to take it like that, you can," she said, rather tartly. "Of course, everything can be made ridiculous."
"Well, that's a blessing, anyway!" said Ashe, with his merry laugh. "But look here, Mary, tell me about yourself. What have you been doing?—dancing—riding, eh?"
He threw himself down beside her, and began an elder-brotherly cross-examination, which lasted till Lady Tranmore returned and begged him to go at once to his father.
When he returned to the drawing-room, Ashe found his mother alone. It was growing dark, and she was sitting idle, her hands in her lap, waiting for him.
"I must be off, dear," he said to her. "You won't come down and see me take my seat?"
She shook her head.
"I think not. What did you think of your father?"
"I don't see much change," he said, hesitating.
"No, he's much the same."
"And you?" He slid down on the sofa beside her and threw his arm round her. "Have you been fretting?"
Lady Tranmore made no reply. She was a self-contained woman, not readily moved to tears. But he felt her hand tremble as he pressed it.
"I sha'n't fret now"—she said after a moment—"now that you've come back."
Ashe's face took a very soft and tender expression.
"Mother, you know—you think a great deal too much of me—you're too ambitious for me."
She gave a sound between a laugh and a sob, and, raising her hands, she smoothed back his curly hair and held his face between them.
"When do you see Lord Parham?" she asked.
"Eight o'clock—in his room at the House. I'll send you up a note."
"You'll be home early?"
"No—don't wait for me."
She dropped her hands, after giving him a kiss on the cheek.
"I know where you're going! It's Madame d'Estrées' evening."
"Well—you don't object?"
"Object?" She shrugged her shoulders. "So long as it amuses you—You won't find one woman there to-night."
"Last time there were two," he said, smiling, as he rose from the sofa.
"I know—Lady Quantock—and Mrs. Mallory. Now they've deserted her, I hear. What fresh gossip has turned up I don't know. Of course," she sighed, "I've been out of the world. But I believe there have been developments."
"Well, I don't know anything about it—and I don't think I want to know. She's very agreeable, and one meets everybody there."
"Everybody. Ungallant creature!" she said, giving a little pull to his collar, the set of which did not please her.
"Sorry! Mother!"—his laughing eyes pursued her—"Do you want to marry me off directly?—I know you do!"
"I want nothing but what you yourself should want. Of course, you must marry."
"The young women don't care twopence about me!"
"William!—be a bear if you like, but not an idiot!"
"Perfectly true," he declared; "not the dazzlers and the high-fliers, anyway—the only ones it would be an excitement to carry off."
"You know very well," she said, slowly, "that now you might marry anybody."
He threw his head
