Rupert stood and glared at him still. Mr. Russell didn't seem disturbed. He lifted his cup to drink off the rest of his tea, and I remember how he stuck out his little finger as he held the cup, in a way I thought elegant then, though now I can see it was affected. Isn't it odd, the little stupid things that come back to one's mind, years after, when much more important things are forgotten? Everything that happened on that day is clear to me still, just as if I had pictures of it all laid up in my mind. Mr. Russell got up to go, and as he gave back the watch to me, he said in an undertone— "What could your father have meant?—sending such a chap as that!" Rupert must have heard; he could not help hearing. He stood like a stock till Mr. Russell was gone, and then he turned sharp round upon me, and said— "You ought to know better, Kitty!" "Oh, ought I?" said I, getting very red. And of course, it wasn't the way for Rupert to speak to me. He had no business to call me to account in any such tone. But it didn't improve matters for me to be angry. I've often thought since that it was one of the times for mother's favourite saying. Less hot words would have been sooner mended. But we were both young and impatient. "Oh, ought I?" says I. "I think you ought to know better by this time, and not behave as if you'd never learnt any manners." "How do I behave?" Rupert asked in a fierce way. "Treating me like a child!" I said. "I'm not a child any longer, and it's time you should know it. And standing staring at Mr. Russell as if you were out of your wits!" "That—puppy!" said he, and the words came in a smothered fury, not against me but against Mr. Russell. I think he was angry with me too, though only a sort of dull sore anger. "How much do you know about that—puppy!—eh, Kitty?—with his airs and graces! And nobody in the village ever set eyes on him nor heard of him till to-day!" "I know more than you do," I said. "Calling him names won't make me think any worse of him nor any better of you." "That's not calling him names. He is a puppy," says Rupert. "With his oiled hair and his put-on manners and his conceit! D'you think I don't know his sort at first sight?" "I wish you were half as much a gentleman as Mr. Russell," I said. "A gentleman!" Rupert burst into a grating laugh, as if he felt choked. "Call that a gentleman?" "Much more of one than you, at any rate," I said. "I'm not a gentleman, and don't pretend to be; don't want to be, neither. A man's capable of being honest, I hope, without using hairdresser's scent and wearing kid gloves. That's what Mr. Russell's gentlemanliness means—nothing more and nothing less. Hairdresser's scent won't stand in the place of honesty, nor kid gloves in the place of—of—" Rupert's voice shook, and he could hardly get out the words— "of real true love, Kitty." He came a step nearer, looking hard at me. "Kitty, don't you be taken in!" says he. "Say you won't!"