"Kitty," I whispered, pointing to the house, "draw _that_, and send it to
your mother. She will never ask again why you didn't care to live there."
"That has nothing to do with it," she retorted coldly. "I would have lived
there, or anywhere, with the right person."
There was no such person. I couldn't help saying it.
She is very handsome when she looks down, proud and a trifle sullen when
you "touch her on the raw," as the men say.
"But there _is_ such a person, Kitty," I ventured. I had ventured, it
seemed, too far.
"You are my hostess. Your house is my only home. Don't be his accomplice!"
I thought it rather well said.
Now that woman's clothes were hanging on the line (and very common-looking
clothes they were), so she could not have been a casual guest. Moreover,
she was pacing the hard ground in front of the house, and staring at us
with a truculent yet uneasy air. Curiosity was strong, and a sort of anger
possessed me against the place and everybody connected with it.
When Cecil came out, looking very hot and confused for him, who is always
so fresh and gay, I inquired, rather shortly perhaps, "Who is your
visitor?"
"I have no visitor," he answered me, as cool as you please.
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