Just a fortnight after his arrival, as she sat writing in the breakfast-room at Layton, pausing now and again to watch the gambols of Mrs. Quirk's Persian kitten, Denis Quirk marched into the room. He picked up the kitten, and seated himself with it near the door.
"Writing?" he asked, abruptly.
His manner of questioning her, indicating to her mind a desire to know as to whom and of what she was writing, aroused an immediate resentment in the girl.
"Yes, I am," she answered, shortly.
He smiled at her manifest annoyance, and continued to play with the kitten.
"Fire away then and get it all off your chest," he said.
Kathleen felt that writing was an impossibility under the circumstances, but she was determined that he should not recognise her embarrassment. Her nib flew relentlessly over the sheets, but the letter was disconnected and dry. At last she gathered her writing materials together, and rose to leave the room.
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Never mind that," she replied. "I have never been asked to give an account of my actions, and I do not intend to."
Denis Quirk smiled yet more broadly. It was evident that her irritation amused him. This did not make her the better pleased.