"Don't go," she says, laughing gayly, now herself. "Even the very original lute would not transform you into a god. Stay if you want to. After all, now I am again in my senses, I daresay you are as good to talk to as a heathen deity."
"Oh, no," says Mr. Desmond, humbly. "They always thundered when they spoke: so think how imposing and convincing their arguments must have been!"
"Horrid, I should think," says Kit. "And now tell me what brought you here?"
This is abrupt, but, taking her in her own mood, Desmond answers, bluntly,—
"Monica."
"She told you to come?"
"No. But I want to see her."
"She has gone to her room."
"Make her leave it again. Tell her I cannot rest until I see her; tell her anything; only bring her to me for even one short moment."
"But it is some time since I left her: perhaps she is in bed."