The Dean looked at him a little askance—­breathing fast.

“But you are a heart, William!” he said, using the privilege, of his white hairs, speaking as he might have spoken to the Eton boy of twenty years before—­“ay, and one of the noblest.  You gathered that poor thing into your arms—­knowing what were the temptations of her nature, and she became the mother of your child.  Now—­alas! those temptations have conquered her.  But she still turns to you—­she still clings to you—­and she has no one else.  And if you reject her she will go down unforgiven and despairing to the grave.”

For the first time Ashe’s lips trembled.  But his speech was very quiet and collected.

“I must try and explain myself,” he said.  “Why should we talk of forgiveness?  It is not a word that I much understand, or that means much to men of my type and generation.  I see what has happened in this way.  Kitty’s conduct last year hit me desperately hard.  It destroyed my private happiness, and but for the generosity of the best friends ever man had it would have driven me out of public life.  I warned her that the consequences of the Cliffe matter would be irreparable, and she still carried it through.  She left me for that man—­and at a time when by her own action it was impossible for me to defend either her or myself.  What course of action remained to me?  I did remember her temperament, her antecedents, and the certainty that this man, whatever might be his moments of heroism, was a selfish and incorrigible brute in his dealings with women.  So I wrote to her, through this same consul at Trieste.  I let her know that if she wished it, and if there were any chance of his marrying her, I would begin divorce proceedings at once.  She had only to say the word.  If she did not wish it, I would spare her and myself the shame and scandal of publicity.  And if she left him, I would make additional provision for her which would insure her every comfort.  She never sent a word of reply, and I have taken no steps.  But as soon as I heard she was at Treviso, I wrote again—­or, rather, this time my lawyers wrote, suggesting that the time had come for the extra provision I had spoken of, which I was most ready and anxious to make.”

He paused.

“And this,” said the Dean, “is all?  This is, in fact, your answer to me?”

Ashe made a sign of assent.

“Except,” he added, with emotion, “that I have heard, only to-day, that if Kitty wishes it, her old friend Miss French will go out to her at once, nurse her, and travel with her as long as she pleases.  Miss French’s brother has just married, and she is at liberty.  She is most deeply attached to Kitty, and as soon as she heard Lady Alice’s report of her state she forgot everything else.  Can you not persuade—­Kitty”—­he looked up urgently—­“to accept her offer?”

“I doubt it,” said the Dean, sadly.  “There is only one thing she pines for, and without it she will be a sick child crossed.  Ah! well—­well!  So to allow her to share your life again—­however humbly and intermittently—­is impossible?”