"That, Miss Keating, is purely a matter of taste. Unhappiness is all that's the matter with you. You'd be quite a kind woman if it wasn't for that. You see, I do understand you, Bunny. So it isn't very wise of you to leave me. Think what an awful time you'll have if you go and live with somebody who doesn't understand and won't make allowances. And you're not strong. You never will be as long as you're miserable. You'll go and live with ill old ladies and get into that state you were in at Matlock. And there won't be anybody to look after you. And, Bunny, you'll never marry--never; and it'll be simply awful. You'll go getting older and older and nervier and nervier, till you're _so_ nervy that even the old ladies won't have you any more. Bad as I am, you'd better stop with me." "Stop with you? How can I stop with you?" "Well, you haven't told me yet why you can't." "I can't tell you. I--I've written you a letter. It's there on the dressing-table." Kitty went to the dressing-table. "I am returning you my salary for the quarter I have been with you." Kitty took up the letter. "I'd rather you did not read it until after I am gone." "That's not fair, Bunny." "Please--I've written what I had to say because I wished to avoid a scene." "There won't be any scene. I'm not going to read your beastly letter." She opened the envelope and removed the notes and laid them on the dressing-table. Then she tore up the letter and the envelope together and tossed them into the grate. "And I'm not going to take those notes." "Nor am I." "You'll have to." She found her companion's purse and tucked the notes inside it. Miss Keating turned on her. "Mrs. Tailleur, you shall not thrust your money on me. I will not take it." "You little fool, you've got to." Miss Keating closed her eyes. It was a way she had. "I can't. And you must please take back the things you've given me. They are all there; in that heap on the bed." Kitty turned and looked at them. They were all there; everything she had ever given to her, the dresses, the combs, the little trinkets. She took some of these and stared at them as she held them in her hand. "Won't you keep anything?" "I won't keep a thing." "Not even the little chain I gave you? Oh, Bunny, you liked your little chain." Miss Keating took the chain from her and laid it with the rest. "Please leave me to pack." "Presently. Bunny--look at me--straight. Why are you doing this?" "I wish to be spared the unpleasantness of speaking." "But you've got to speak. Out with it. What have I done?" "You know better than I do what your life has been." "My life? I should think I did. Rather." Kitty crossed the room to the bell. "What time does your train go?" "My----? I--must leave this at seven-thirty." Kitty rang the bell. A housemaid appeared. "I want a fly at seven-thirty. Please see that Miss Keating's luggage is downstairs by then. Her room will not be wanted." Miss Keating's face was livid.