“I believe that. Not even kissed her!” she said. “But I meant you to kiss her and be engaged to her, then marry her, in a pretty and prudent sequence, as you perfectly well know.” She suddenly became fiercely serious. “See here, Kit, you’re to marry Helen, do you hear me? I wonder what better you could ask of fate? That quiet little brown girl, Anne Damask, Darrar, whatever she is, with whom you fancied yourself in love--oh, dear me, yes; I saw it, but it was utter tom-foolishness--is going to marry the poet. A good thing all around! You are to marry Helen. Please make a point of being engaged to her to-morrow at this time.” It was a mistake, of course, but Kit laughed. “Sounds like ordering the car, or chops, or something, Aunt Anne!” he said, his cheerfulness restored. “I shall never marry Helen, and never make a point of being engaged to her; I’ll make a point of not being! And to-morrow I’ll get out of her way; go down to New York to see a man there whom I want to see anyway, and then hang around somewhere till Helen is gone. In September I’m going into business.” “Good heavens, Kit!” gasped Miss Carrington. “And my heart has been weak lately!” She yielded everything so swiftly that Kit was bewildered. “Very well, then, don’t marry Helen! It will be you, not I, who loses. But don’t go away. Stay at home. There won’t be awkwardness; Helen knows how to break most of the commandments, but she wouldn’t know how to behave stupidly. Stay here, Kit, at least awhile.” “Poor auntie! I am a trial, I know. But you wouldn’t have me be a regular bounder and marry Helen for her father, now would you? Don’t answer; it’s bad enough not to be able to handle me without granting I’m right! I’ll stay on--if I can! Honest, Aunt Anne, I’m not sure I can,” Kit said. “Certainly, you can; nonsense! Good-night, Kit! I’ll try to be grateful for the concession that keeps you under my roof,” said Miss Carrington, letting him out softly, as if she wanted to let sleeping dogs lie, and their kennels were near at hand. Miss Carrington had reckoned, if not without her host, yet without her guest. Helen had been in the cupola star-gazing, or so it appeared. She came down the narrow stairs which led to the cupola of this house, built after the manner of ambitious houses erected immediately after the Civil War. She encountered Kit in the hall. “Hallo, Kit!” she said, softly, lest Miss Carrington should hear, but in such an off-hand, nothing-happened manner that Kit had a fleeting wonderment whether he had been in bed and dreamed the afternoon’s adventure. “Come in here.” Helen opened the door to her room and drew Kit inside. “No more occupied chambers, thank goodness, except the servants’, and I’m not going up there!” Kit thought, with a desperate sense upon him of an endless chain of bedroom interviews, and no small dread of this one.