“I’m afraid I was not quite pretty-behaved there, Kit! Spoiled children are so dreadful, and, till I discovered that the secretary was also the poet’s dream and to be Mrs. Latham, I hated meeting her; that’s the truth. I don’t mean to be a snob, but social equality is such utter nonsense that it ruffles my feathers. I was annoyed that I had to walk with that commonplace girl, and be shown the garden by her! That is, until I discovered her future standing. So I’m afraid I was a bit horrid. I’m sorry! And of course Miss Dallas is all right in her way.” Helen leaned forward to smile into Kit’s face. He threw his head back and away from her. “Oh, damn--ascus!” he said. Helen laughed blithely, and tucked her hand into his arm with high good humour. “You needn’t convert your swear words on my account, Kit,” she said. “I might use one myself were occasion demanding it. If I was naughty, at least _I_ kept my temper, poor Kit! How about it? Did we all?” “It’s a mighty poor thing to keep,” said Kit. “Get rid of it. Yes, you sure kept your temper, Nell! That’s the kind of temper I remember you had. You’ve kept it, all right!” “What a horrid boy you are, Kit Carrington!” cried Helen, delighted, but pretending not to be. “I have not a bad temper; I never fly out. I dislike foolish, tiresome, annoying things, that’s all! I’ve an excellent temper to live with. My father says I’m the easiest woman to get on with he ever knew, and a man who has governed a whole state ought to be a judge of one little disposition! Come on, don’t sulk! It would be too stupid to bring an unpleasant atmosphere home with us into your aunt’s house.” He looked at her; she was smiling, and was wonderfully handsome. Poor baited Kit, disturbed by Helen’s discovery and disgusted with the afternoon, sighed helplessly and gave in. “You may be the easiest woman to get on with your father ever knew,” he said. “From what experienced people tell us that’s not a strong statement. It’s no fool of a job to handle any woman, they say, and I believe it!” CHAPTER VIII _Candour_ Miss Carrington, seated before the hearth in her sitting room and enjoying the wood fire partly because it crackled; partly because it was too warm for the day, heard Minerva moving about in her dressing room and called her. “Isn’t Helen back yet?” she asked. Minerva appeared in the doorway, disapproval in every line of her black taffeta gown. “Miss Abercrombie came in three quarters of an hour ago; she went to her room and it’s likely is resting there, though not having seen her I am not able to say positively,” she replied. “Oh, well, Minerva, it will never come to a trial for perjury,” observed Miss Carrington. “Ask her if she will not join me?”