“Oh, _kind_!” cried poor Harry, grasping unconsciously the white curtains that kept blowing between him and her, in his strong, hot hands. “Don’t you like the word? I think it is such a nice word. There is nothing like it in Italian, and you can apply it so widely. You can be kind to a horse or a dog; and then to children, and sick people and poor people; and then--to everybody--me. You have always been, ever since I knew you, very kind to me.” “Don’t say so--don’t say so--not that word,” Harry cried. “But there is no other word half so good. Other words express other feelings; kind means, just kind. There is nothing else expresses it. English is a wonderfully fine language. It is so strong and so trustworthy. You feel as if you could believe it, every word. Mr. Oliver,” said Rita, in her little, soft, insinuating voice, “did you really, really believe that--that I might go to England, if--someone were to take care of me, such care as you call precious; but, then, who would do that? not papa, for he is so frightened. No one I know.” “Miss Bonamy, I must say good night,” said Harry, very shortly, taking himself out of the floating curtain, almost tearing it down in his agitation. “Good night! before papa comes back? Oh, but that would be _un_kind. Don’t. Why should you run off in such a hurry in the very middle of our talk?” “Because,” he said, with the crushed curtain like a wisp in his hands, “I can’t stay--I mustn’t stay. Forgive me, and, if you will, excuse me: and--good night!” He was rushing away, when she put out her hand. He saw that, though there was so little light. He could not refuse to shake hands with her; and instead of leaving the pressure to him, she took hold of his hand for a second, lightly but firmly detaining him. “Mr. Oliver,” she said, with that little plaintive tone, “you should not run away.” Harry was hoarse with agitation and distress. That soft, light touch of detention made him wild. “I must fly,” he said, “fly! Do you think I want to go? I must fly, and come no more.”