"I don't mind her leaving. I can get over that. But you don't know the awful things she said." "No, I don't; but I dare say she didn't mean half of them." "Didn't she though! I'll show you." Kitty got up and opened the door into the other room. It was as Miss Keating had left it. "Look there," she said, "what she's done." Jane looked. "I'm not surprised. You did everything for her, so I suppose she expected you to pack and send her things after her." "It isn't that. Don't you see? It's--it's the things I gave her. She flung them back in my face. She wouldn't take one of them. See, that's the white frock she was wearing, and the fur-lined coal (she'll be so cold without it), and look, that's the little chain I gave her on her birthday. She wouldn't even keep the chain." "Well, I dare say she would feel rather bad about it after she's behaved in this way." "It isn't that. It's because they were mine--because I wore them." Kitty began to sob. "No, no, dear Mrs. Tailleur----" "Yes, yes. She--she thought they'd c--c--contaminate her." Kitty's sobs broke into the shrill laugh of hysteria. Jane led her to the couch and sat beside her. Kitty leaned forward, staring at the floor. Now and then she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling. Suddenly she looked up into Jane's face. "Would _you_ mind wearing a frock I'd worn?" "Of course I wouldn't." Kitty's handkerchief dropped on to her lap, a soaked ball, an insufficient dam. "Oh," she cried, "the beast!--the little, little beast!" She looked again at Jane, but with a glance half cowed, half candid; like a child that has proved, indubitably, its predestined naughtiness. "I didn't mean to use that word." "I want to use it myself," said Jane. "It's not a bit too much." "I didn't mean it." She added softly, reminiscently. "She was such a little thing." "Much too little for you to care about." "That's why I cared. I know it was. She was just like a little, lonely child; and she clung to me at first." "She certainly seems to have clung." "That's why it's so awful to think that she couldn't bear it--couldn't bear to live with me." "We wondered how you could bear to live with her." "Did you?" "Yes. Why did you have her?" "You see, I had to have some one; and she was nice." "I don't think she was nice at all." "Oh yes," said Kitty, solemnly, "you could see _that_." "I suppose you mean she was a lady?" "Ye--es." Kitty was not by any means certain that that was what she did mean. It was so difficult to find words for what she meant. "That," said Jane, "is the least you can be." "Anyhow, she _was_." "Well, if you take a charitable view of her. Her people are probably nicer than she is. Perhaps that's why she doesn't live with them." "Her father," said Kitty, "is the vicar of Wenden. I suppose that's all right." "Probably; but _we_ don't care what peoples' fathers are like, provided they're nice themselves." "Do you think I'm nice?"