"Sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage."
Some thought belonging to the past night coming to Kit, she turns to Monica with a little laugh.
"How silent you have been about last night's adventure!" she says. "I watched you from your own window until the shadows caught you. You looked like a flitting spirit,—a—a bhoot."
"A boot!" says Monica, very justly surprised.
"Yes," loftily. Kit's educational course, as directed by herself, has been of the erratic order, and has embraced many topics unknown to Monica. From the political economy of the Faroe Isles, it has reached even to the hidden mysteries of Hindostan.
"I must have struck you then as being in my liveliest mood," says Monica, still laughing. "Terry told us yesterday he was as gay as old boots. As I looked like one, I suppose I was at least half as gay as he was. After all, there is nothing like leather, no matter how ancient."
"There's an h in my bhoot," says Kit, with some disgust. "Really, the ignorance of some people—even the nicest—is, surprising."
"Then why don't you take it out?" says Monica, frivolously. "Not that I know in the very least what harm a poor innocent letter could do there."
"You don't understand," says Kit, pitifully.
"I don't indeed," says Monica, unabashed.