ghtening in her
throat--"Who could be friendless, with all that money?" Instantly she
felt like biting her tongue. He would know nothing of the sad American
habit of trying to be funny to keep a wobbly situation on its legs.
He would interpret it as heartlessness. "I didn't mean that!" With the
Irish impulsiveness which generally weighs acts in retrospection, she
reached over and gripped his hand.

"I say, you two!" Hawksley closed his eyes for a second. "Wanting to
buck up a chap because you re that sort! All right. I'll stick it out!
You two! And I might be the worst scoundrel unhung!"

He drew her hand toward his lips, and Kitty had not the power to resist
him. She felt strangely theatrical, a character in a play; for American
men, except in playful burlesque, never kissed their women's hands. The
moment he released the hand the old wave of hysteria rolled over her.
She must fly. The desire to weep, little fool that she was! was breaking
through her defences. Loneliness. The two of them all alone but for
Cutty. She rose, crushing the wallet in her hand.

Ah, never had she needed that darling mother of hers so much as
now. Tears did not seem to afford relief when one shed them into
handkerchiefs and pillows. But on that gentle bosom, to let loose this
brimming flood, to hear the tender voice consoling!

"Oh, I say, now! Please!" she heard Johnny Two-Hawks cry out.

But she rushed on blindly, knocking against the door jamb and almost
upsetting the nurse, who was returning. Somehow she managed to reach the
living room, glad it was dark. Alter sundry reaching about she found
the divan and flung herself upon it. What would he think? What would the
nurse think? That Kitty Conover had suddenly gone stark, raving crazy!
And now that she was in the dark, alone, the desire to weep passed over
and she lay quietly with her face buried in the pillow. But not for
long.

She sat up. Music--violin music! A gay waltz that made her think of
flashing water, the laughter of children. Tschaikowsky. Thrilled, she
waited for the finale. Silence. Scharwenka's "Polish Dance," with a
swing and a fire beyond anything she had ever heard before. Another
stretch of silence--a silence full of interrogation points. Then a
tender little sketch, quite unfamiliar. But all at once she understood.
He was imploring her to return. She smiled in the dark; but she knew she
was going to remain right where she was.

"Miss Conover?" It was the voice of