“Naturally,” said Darrell.

“And it always amuses people—­doesn’t it?”

Kitty clasped her hands round her knees and looked at him with candor.

“Does it?” said Darrell.  “It has been done a good deal.”

“Oh, of course,” said Kitty, impatiently, “mine’s not the proper thing.  You don’t imagine I should try and write like Thackeray, do you?  Mine’s real people—­real things that happened—­with just the names altered.”

“Ah!” said Darrell, sitting up—­“that sounds exciting.  Is it libellous?”

“Well, that’s just what I want to know,” said Kitty, slowly.  “Of course, I’ve made a kind of story out of it.  But you’d have to be a great fool not to guess.  I’ve put myself in, and—­”

“And Ashe?”

Kitty nodded.  “All the novels that are written about politics nowadays—­except Dizzy’s—­are such nonsense, aren’t they?  I just wanted to describe—­from the inside—­how a real statesman”—­she threw up her head proudly—­“lives, and what he does.”

“Excellent subject,” said Darrell.  “Well—­anybody else?”

Kitty flushed.  “You’ll see,” she said, uncertainly.

Darrell’s involuntary smile was hidden by a bunch of honeysuckle at which he was sniffing.  “May I look?” he asked, stretching out a hand for the sheets.

She pushed them towards him, half unwilling, half eager, and he began to turn them over.  Apparently it had a thread of story—­both slender and extravagant.  And on the thread—­Hullo!—­here was the fancy ball; he pounced upon it.  A portrait of Lady Parham—­Ye powers! he chuckled as he read.  On the next page the Chancellor of the Exchequer—­snub-nosed parvenu and Puritan—­admirably caught.  Further on a speech of Ashe’s in the House—­with caricature to right and caricature to left ...  Ah! the poet!—­at last!  He bent over the page till Kitty coughed and fidgeted, and he thought it best to hurry on.  But it was war, he perceived—­open, undignified, feminine war.  On the next page, the Archbishop of Canterbury—­with Lady Kitty’s views on the Athanasian Creed!  Heavens! what a book!  Next, Royalty itself, not too respectfully handled.  Then Ashe again—­Ashe glorified, Ashe explained, Ashe intrigued against, and Ashe triumphant—­everywhere the centre of the stage, and everywhere, of course, all unknown to the author, the fool of the piece.  Political indiscretions also, of the most startling kind, as coming from the wife of a cabinet minister.  Allusions, besides, scattered broadcast, to the scandals of the day—­material as far as he could see for a dozen libel actions.  And with it all, much fantastic ability, flashes of wit and romance, enough to give the book wings beyond its first personal audience—­enough, in fact, to secure to all its scandalous matter the widest possible chance of fame.

“Well!”

He rolled over on his elbows, and lay staring at the sheets before him—­dumb.  What was he to say?