"Archibald is my nephew," said Lady Hawborough stiffly; and when Lady Hawborough was stiff, the common or kitchen poker compared with her was a soft and flexible article. "My nephew and heir. He is a very good and brave young man." "He may be a saint for all I care," said Kitty; "but I don't want to marry him, and I won't. In fact, I'm----" She was going to say "engaged," but she was really too angry to confide in Lady Hawborough "--I'm resolved not to do so. I am afraid you will think me very ungrateful, and that--well, that this is the end of our friendship." "I think you are stating the situation very accurately," said Lady Hawborough, whose face was exceeding red. "I'm sorry," said Kitty, rather wistfully and sadly, her resentment waning; for the old lady had been very kind to her, and Kitty saw that even this absurd intention of hers sprang from a benevolent desire to benefit her protégée. "I want to thank you for all your goodness to me, and----Good-bye, Lady Hawborough." She held out her hand, but Lady Hawborough appeared not to see it, and Kitty got outside the "stately and desirable mansion" and hastened home to enjoy a good cry. When she made her appearance in the studio next morning, she found her father seated on his stool in an attitude of profound dismay, his long figure bowed, his rumpled hair clutched in his hands, his painting-brush between his teeth. On the dais stood the wounded soldier, his face flushed, an expression of keen discomfort all over him. "Here, look here, Kitty!" wailed her distracted parent. "Just listen to what this young man's been telling me? He says that you and he have got engaged! Heavens!" "Quite true, father," said Kitty calmly, but with a blush. "Oh, my goodness! And he tells me that he's poor, and has nothing to live on excepting his pay and a small allowance." "That's true also, I believe, father," said Kitty. "I'm sorry; but it can't be helped. You'll have to paint me as 'The Mendicant's Bride.'" "Don't joke about it, you foolish, abandoned girl!" groaned Mr. Thorold. "But you don't want me to cry about it, Dad dear," said Kitty, going to him, taking the brush from between his teeth, and putting her arm round his neck. "Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?" she asked, addressing the discomfited young man. "Not a word," he returned. "Said all I've got to say. And look at the effect of it!" [Illustration] "Yes," she retorted. "You've broken the heart of an affectionate and devoted parent. You're a wicked young man.--Oh, dad dear, do get up and go on with your work! You know as well as I do that you're not going to make us unhappy? Say, 'Bless you, my children!' like a good father, and let's all go up and mingle our tears over a lunch at the Floriani." "Ripping idea!" cried the infatuated lover, who would have said the same if Kitty had proposed they should lunch in the moon.