Kitty, turning, spoke crisply. "Certainly not. Wilson! Why should they be? Did you ask for the second, Rodney? And you the third, Sty? I promised Mr. Jordano one; you can have the fifth, Wilson, if you like." "If I like! cruel Katrine!" murmured Mr. Wibird. He folded his arms and glared savagely at the three Chanters, who smiled cheerfully at him and said in chorus, "Hello, Wilse! h'are ye?" Then he retired to the wall, where he stood, his arms folded in a Napoleonic attitude, his brows bent, his eyes following Kitty as she glided about the room. Wilson Wibird had made up his mind to marry Kitty Ross, even before her return from Europe. There was no other mate for him in Cyrus, he confided to his one intimate, the greenish mirror that hung over his dressing table. She was lovely; she was accomplished; she had Mind and Taste; she could appreciate him, and on her the name of Wibird might be bestowed without derogation from its high descent. He saw himself in fancy--Wilson lived largely in fancy--the master of Ross House, welcoming his guests (and Kitty's) with the stately courtesy of a gentleman of the old school. "Katrine and I bid you welcome!" he would say to the mirror. "The simple comforts of our home are yours as long as you care to share them!" His air was very noble, he thought, as he waved his guests in. Now, Wilson was forced to acknowledge that up to this time Kitty had shown little sense of the honor he proposed to do her. He had met her several times, and walked with her along the street, but whenever he bestowed on her what he called a flower of speech, he found that she had an errand in the store they were passing. Sometimes he waited for her, and she never came out, being indeed well acquainted with the back door of every store on the street--sometimes he "punished" her by stalking on with bended brows. (Wilson loved bended brows; he sometimes bended them so far that his little eyes could hardly be seen; but this is by the way.) When he called in the evening, Kitty was apt to be busy waiting on her aunt, or else those Chanter girls were there. Altogether, Wilson felt that his suit was not prospering as it should: this, he told the mirror, must cease. She would set her will to his, forsooth! pretty birdling! She should see what it meant to thwart a man with a chin like that. He motioned toward his image. He must assert himself. Some lines of poetry came to his mind; lines which he had felt, the first time he read them, to describe himself: "He was a strong man from the north, Light-locked, with eyes of dangerous gray."