"Yes, you do. Did he tell you your eyes were deep, deep wells of love, and that your face was full of soul?"
"No, he did not," says Monica, somewhat indignantly; "certainly not. The idea!"
"Well, that is what Percival said to the girl he loved in the book I was reading yesterday," says Kit, rather cast down.
"Then I'm very glad Mr. Desmond isn't like Percival."
"I daresay he is nicer," says Kit, artfully. Then she tucks her arm into her sister's, and looks fondly in her face. "He must have said something to you," she says. "Darling love, why won't you tell your own Kitten all about it?"
A little smile quivers round Monica's lips.
"Well, I will, then," she says. In her heart I believe she is glad to confide in somebody, and why not in Kit the sympathetic? "First, he made me feel he was delighted to meet me again. Then he asked me to go for a walk alone with him; then he said he was—my lover!"
"Oh!" says Kit, screwing up her small face with delight.
"And then he asked me to meet him again to-day with you."
"With me! I think that was very delicate of him." She is evidently flattered by this notice of her existence. Plainly, if not the rose in his estimation, she is to be treated with the respect due to the rose's sister. It is all charming! she feels wafted upwards, and incorporated, as it were, in a real love affair. Yes, she will be the guardian angel of these thwarted lovers.