Somehow I managed to get up-stairs to my own pretty room, to wash my face, what there was left of it, and straighten my gown. And there was Beauty, my lovely half-grown kitten that some one had brought from the old home.
I heard Stuart’s voice outside the door and called him in.
“Stuart,” I said with much dignity, “this is Miss Beauty Endicott, a nice, orderly, well brought-up kitten, and mine. I want you to respect her and treat her with the courtesy of a gentleman.”
“Oh, fudge!” he returned. “What are you doing with a kitten when you are married? I thought it was only old maids who were death on cats.”
“It is boys who are death on cats,” I replied severely. “And then—I never did expect to be married. I always supposed—”
“Oh, you couldn’t have been an old maid! your nose never can be sharp, and your chin has that great dimple in it, and you are such a funny little dumpling altogether! If you say much I’ll put you in my pocket and carry you off. No doubt Stephen would feel immensely relieved, but what could the cat do?”
“You are an incorrigible boy!”
“But we will have jolly times for all that,” and he whistled to Tim, who put her head within the door.
“Fan,” I exclaimed with remorseful tenderness as I was going down stairs with her arm over my shoulder; “I have Mrs. Whitcomb. But you know you half gave her to Stephen. And as you are not to keep house—”
“I will lend her to you a little while longer.”