“Why do you speak, or did you mean to speak, as though Miss Dallas would marry Mr. Latham?” Kit smilingly asked. “Oh, don’t you know about it?” asked Miss Carrington, blandly. “I suppose it isn’t talked of yet. You should keep a lady’s maid, Kit! Here we are just returned and are in possession of facts, while you, right within hail of Cupid, never saw a flash of his arrow!” “Facts, Aunt Anne? Do you mean _facts_?” Poor Kit spoke with difficulty. “Surely, Kit, my dear; why not? Isn’t an engagement usually a fact? Minerva met Mr. Latham’s housekeeper who knows all that the principals themselves know, probably more! Mrs. Lumley--that’s the housekeeper--rather resents it. Naturally a woman of her class would resent her employer’s marrying below his own. Though I confess I’ve found Miss Dallas in every way correct, quite like a well-born person. Then Mrs. Lumley would be jealous of authority, a woman’s authority over her, where she has reigned supreme. These things embroider the story attractively when Minerva tells it, but they are not intrinsic to the fabric. The important fact, important to us all, since Richard Latham’s work will be affected by it--Cleavedge’s celebrity’s work--is that our poet is engaged to be married to the little brown Dallas girl.” “Aunt Anne, he isn’t! What nonsense you--I beg your pardon! I mean what nonsense Minerva talks. It isn’t so because--because--it can’t be so!” Kit exploded. Miss Carrington adjusted her glasses the better to look at her nephew. Helen leaned back in her chair somewhat tense, amusement, yet strong annoyance in her face. “He is hard hit!” she thought, calculating the chances of consolation. “_Can’t_ be so, Christopher? But it can be, because it _is_ so! Why should it not be true? She is at his hand every moment while he is at work and shares the work with him. She has a nice alto voice, moves well, would not annoy him; why should he not, lonely as he is, be attracted to her?” inquired Miss Carrington, temperately, ignoring any other side to consider in the matter except the poet’s. “I don’t believe it!” Kit almost groaned.