“My dear boy, that sounds rude, but I’m sure you don’t mean it so,” said his aunt. “Don’t you recall my saying that this marriage was certain to come off? Miss Dallas read a poem not intended for her reading--I suspect Mrs. Lumley of eavesdropping to have known this! Miss Dallas was not dishonourable; she mistook the poem for her work, I’ve no doubt. In it Richard Latham voiced the love for her which he thought, foolishly, when you consider what he is, that he was forbidden to tell Miss Dallas because he is blind. I talked with Miss Dallas when she had just learned that Latham loved her. We agreed that she was free to admit to herself her love for Richard Latham; that it was now her right, her duty to walk the beautiful way open to her. I have no doubt that she will be happy. He is a rare man. There is no question that they both are now blissfully happy. Miss Dallas is dining there to-night, and Mr. Latham, instructing Mrs. Lumley as to the table, himself told her to put an old lady friend of his, who is also dining there, at his right, but to put Miss Dallas opposite him. ‛Though I cannot see her, Mrs. Lumley, I shall know that she is there. I want to say to you that it will not be long before Miss Dallas will preside over my table, seated opposite to me. She has consented to be my wife.’ Mrs. Lumley quoted this to Minerva with what I feel sure was dramatic accuracy, for Minerva’s repetition of her words carried conviction. I am sure that though she hates the marriage, the housekeeper enjoys having her feelings harrowed! It is really more exciting than a movie, I make no question!” Miss Carrington laughed her light, amused, tolerant laugh. With an imprecation Kit shoved back his chair and went away. He was numb with puzzled incredulity, yet he knew that what he had heard must be true. How it could be true--how this could follow to-day after his certainty of yesterday, of this afternoon, till this moment--Kit could not think. He could not think about it, anyway. All that he could do was to feel. Poor Kit was one dull ache, stunned by the blow that had fallen upon him. He recalled the significance, the pity with which Richard Latham’s housekeeper had regarded him. His secret must be suspected then; he was warranted in his feeling that Anne had understood, if the housekeeper knew. Kit went to his room and sat by the window at which he had spent the night of anxious vigil before Anne Berkley’s fate was decided. Then Anne Dallas had seemed to be with him, sharing his sorrow for the little girl, but also sharing the love which upheld him. He tried to think back to discover what had made him so sure that Anne had understood and had answered to the call of his longing for her, but he could discover nothing that she had done or said.