"No, it won't do yet," said he. "I can't let you speak out yet, Kitty. You don't understand why, of course; but it won't do. I'm not in a position to have it known yet, and till I am, you mustn't let it be thought that we—" He bungled there, and didn't finish his sentence. "I should only be told I wasn't to see you again, and you wouldn't like that, eh? No, we've got to wait a while." "But if it isn't right—if I ought to tell?" I got out feebly. You see, I'd given in so long, it was doubly hard to make a stand then. He laughed at this. "Wrong!" says he. "Why, you dear little goose, what's right or wrong to do with it? And, in point of fact, there's nothing to tell," says he. "We've not settled anything; only you're a dear little charming Kitty, and—well, you like me, don't you?" "How do you know I like you?" I asked. "That's not so hard to see," said he, laughing again. "I mightn't have been so sure at first, if I hadn't had a word from a friend of yours; but I can't feel any manner of doubt now." I knew he meant Mrs. Hammond: yet I could not be angry just then, with him going away next day. "And I like you too, of course," he went on. "So it is give and take, isn't it? All fair and square, you know. You're the prettiest and sweetest girl I've ever seen in all my life. That's saying a good deal, isn't it? And some day—Well, you've got to go indoors now, I suppose, and you can tell Mary I shan't be able to see her in the morning, because I must be off by the early train. I've seen her this afternoon, and she knows I'm going." The sharp change of voice took me all aback, as when there had been the same once before; and the cause was the same too; for once again Rupert stood staring hard at us, with a strange look, as if his mouth was made of iron. I heard a sort of mutter from Mr. Russell, which sounded like— "Meddlesome chap!" Rupert said nothing. He only stood stock-still, and stared. "Well, it's getting late, and I must be gone. Good-bye, Kitty," said Mr. Russell. He must have been flurried by Rupert's sudden coming, to call me "Kitty" before another. I saw it was a forget, by his start; but the word once said couldn't be unsaid, and I suppose he thought he'd better carry it off well, so he gave a little laugh, and repeated, "Good-bye, Kitty!" in a tone as if he'd been speaking to a child. Then he was gone; and Rupert and I were left together. I would have run away, but I did not. "You've been crying," Rupert said, very short. "It's not your business if I have," I said. "About that worthless chap, I suppose? And he daring to call you 'Kitty!'" Rupert looked as if he was ready to foam at the mouth, and yet it was in a sort of dead-quiet way, not like a man in a regular passion. "You call me 'Kitty,'" I said, "and I'd rather you wouldn't." "Kitty, this can't go on," says he in a hoarse voice.