"Why?"

"Because I am going away."

"Have you had bad news? Is--is anybody dead?"

"I wouldn't ask any questions if I were you."

"I must ask some. You know, people _don't_ walk off like this without giving any reason."

"I am surprised at your asking for my reason."

"Sur--prised," said Kitty softly. "Are you going because of me?"

Miss Keating did not answer.

"I see. So you don't like me any more?"

"We won't put it that way."

Kitty came and stood beside Miss Keating and looked down at her.

"Bunny, have I been a brute to you?"

"No."

"Have I ever been a brute to any one? Have you ever known me do an unkind thing, or say an unkind word to any one?"

"N--no."

"Then why do you listen when people say unkind things about me?"

Miss Keating stooped very low over the trunk. Her att.i.tude no doubt accounted for the redness of her face which Kitty noticed. "I think I know what they've been saying. Did you or did you not listen?"

"Listen?"

"Yes. I don't mean behind doors and things. But you let them talk to you?"

"You cannot stop people talking."

"Can't you? I'd have stopped them pretty soon if they'd talked to me about you. What did they say?"

"You've said just now you knew."

"Very well. Who said it?"

"You've no reason to a.s.sume that anybody has said anything."

"Was it Mr. Lucy, or his sister?"

Miss Keating became agitated.

"I have never discussed you with Mr. Lucy. Or his sister." There was a little click in Miss Keating's throat where the lie stuck.

"I know you haven't. They wouldn't let you."

Kitty smiled. Miss Keating saw the smile. She trembled. Tears started to her eyes. She rose and began sorting the pile of clothing on the bed.

Something in her action inspired Kitty with an intolerable pa.s.sion of wonder and of pity. She came to her and laid her hand on her hair, lightly and with a certain fear.

Miss Keating had once purred under Kitty's caresses. Now she jerked back suddenly and beat off the timid hand.

"I wish you wouldn't touch me."

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me loathe you."

Kitty sat down on the bed. She had wrapped her hand in her pocket-handkerchief as if it had been hurt.

"Poor Bunny," she said; "are you feeling as bad as all that? You must want dreadfully to marry that long man. But you needn't loathe me. I'm not going to make him marry _me_."

"Can you not think of anything but that?"

"I can _think_ of all sorts of things. At present I'm thinking of that.

It does seem such an awful pity that you haven't married. A dear little, sweet little, good little thing like you--for you _are_ good, Bunny.

It's a shame that you should have to live in rage and fury, and be very miserable, and--and rather cruel, just because of that."

"If every word you said of me was true, I'd rather be myself than you, Mrs. Tailleur."

"That, Miss Keating, is purely a matter of taste. Unhappiness is all that's the matter with you. You'd be quite a kind woman if it wasn't for that. You see, I do understand you, Bunny. So it isn't very wise of you to leave me. Think what an awful time you'll have if you go and live with somebody who doesn't understand and won't make allowances. And you're not strong. You never will be as long as you're miserable. You'll go and live with ill old ladies and get into that state you were in at Matlock. And there won't be anybody to look after you. And, Bunny, you'll never marry--never; and it'll be simply awful. You'll go getting older and older and nervier and nervier, till you're _so_ nervy that even the old ladies won't have you any more. Bad as I am, you'd better stop with me."

"Stop with you? How can I stop with you?"

"Well, you haven't told me yet why you can't."

"I can't tell you. I--I've written you a letter. It's there on the dressing-table."

Kitty went to the dressing-table.

"I am returning you my salary for the quarter I have been with you."

Kitty took up the letter.

"I'd rather you did not read it until after I am gone."

"That's not fair, Bunny."

"Please--I've written what I had to say because I wished to avoid a scene."