"Dear me! and is that old relative in Wales really dying? Mr. Vivian has always made periodical excursions into Wales ever since I knew him. Well, I wondered why he did not write to say that he was coming. It was an understood thing that he should stay with us as soon as we returned from Italy, and I was surprised to hear nothing from him. Were not you, Kitty?"
"No, I was not at all surprised," said Kitty, rather sharply.
"I had a commission to execute for my friend," said Hugo, turning a little towards her. "Mr. Vivian asked me to take charge of a parcel, and to place it in your own hands; he was afraid that it would be broken if it went by post. He told me that it was a little birthday remembrance."
He laid the parcel on a table beside the girl. He noticed that her colour varied, but that she did not speak. Mrs. Heron's voice filled the pause.
"How kind of you to bring it, Mr. Luttrell! Mr. Vivian always remembers our birthdays; especially Kitty's. Does he not, Kitty?"
"Not mine especially," said Kitty, frowning. She looked at the box as if she did not care to open it.
"Do let us see what it is," pursued Mrs. Heron. "Mr. Vivian has such exquisite taste! Shall we open the box, Kitty?"
"If you like," returned Kitty. "Here is a pair of scissors."
"Oh, we could not think of opening your box for you; open it yourself, dear. Make haste; we are all quite curious, are we not, Mr. Luttrell?"
Mr. Luttrell smiled a little, and toyed with his tea-spoon; his eyes were fixed questioningly on Kitty's mutinous face, with its down-dropped, curling lashes and pouting rose-leaf lips. He felt more curiosity respecting the contents of that little box than he cared to show.