He was prevailed on to stay the night, and his visit was prolonged day after day, until it was accepted as a settled thing that he would remain for some time—perhaps even until Percival came home. It had been calculated that Percival might easily be home in February.
He could not easily maintain the coldness and reserve with which he had begun to treat Kitty Heron. There was something so winning and so childlike about her at times, that he dropped unconsciously into the old familiar tone. Then he would try to draw back, and would succeed, perhaps, in saying something positively rude or unkind, which would bring the tears to her eyes, and the flush of vexation to her face. At least, if it was not really unkind it sounded so to Kitty, and that came to the same thing. And when she was vexed, he was illogical enough to feel uncomfortable.
But Kitty's crowning offence was her behaviour at a dinner-party, on the occasion of the christening of Mrs. Heron's little girl. Hugo Luttrell and the two young Grants from Dunmuir were amongst the guests; and with them Kitty amused herself. She did not mean any harm, poor child; she chattered gaily and looked up into their faces, with a gleeful consciousness that Rupert was watching her, and that she could show him now that some people admired her if he did not. Archie Grant certainly admired her prodigiously; he haunted her steps all through the evening, hung over the piano when she sang a gay little French chanson; turned over a portfolio of Mr. Heron's sketches with her in a corner. On the other hand, Hugo, who took her in to dinner, whispered things to her that made her start and blush. Vivian would have liked very much to know what he said. He did not approve of that darkly handsome face, with the haggard, evil-looking eyes, being thrust so close to Kitty's soft cheeks and pretty flower-decked head. He was glad to think that he had prevailed on Angela to leave Netherglen. He was not fond of Hugo Luttrell.
He was stiffer and graver than usual that evening; not even the appearance of the newly-christened Dorothy Elizabeth, in a very long white robe, won a smile from him. He never approached Kitty—never said a word to her—until he was obliged to say good-night. And then she looked up to him with her dancing eyes and pretty smile, and said:—
"You never came near me all the evening, and you had promised to sing a duet with me."
"Is the little coquette trying her wiles on me!" thought Rupert, sternly; but aloud he answered, with grave indifference,
"You were better employed. You had your own friends."
"And are you not a friend?" cried Kitty, biting her lip.
"I am not your contemporary. I cannot enter into competition with these younger men," he answered, quietly.
Kitty quitted him in a rage. Elizabeth encountered her as she ran upstairs, her cheeks crimson, her lips quivering, her eyes filled with tears.