Having discharged this shell, she waits in stony silence for a reply. She waits some time. Then —
"Are you speaking of—of Mr. Desmond?" asks Monica, in a trembling voice.
"Yes. He is standing there now, and has been, for—oh, for hours,—on the bare chance of gaining one word from you."
"Now?" starting.
"Yes. He said he would wait until I had persuaded you to go out. If I had such a lover, I know I should not keep him waiting for me all the evening shivering with cold."
(It is the balmiest of summer nights.)
"Oh! what shall I do?" says Monica, torn in two between her desire to be true to her aunt and yet not unkind to her lover.
"As I said before," says the resolute Kit, turning her small pale face up to her sister, "I know I am not entitled to dictate to any one, but this I know, too, that if I were you, and twenty Aunt Priscillas were at my side, I should still—go to him! There!"
She conquers. Monica rises slowly, and as a first move in the desired direction goes—need I say it?—to the looking-glass. Need I say, also, that she feels dissatisfied with her appearance?
"Then I suppose I had better dress myself all over again," she says, glancing with much discontent at the charming vision the glass returns to her.