“Surely.”
“Till then, good-bye.”
Hilda returned to the sitting-room to find a new Kitty, all delight and eagerness.
“Please tell me what he writes?” she asked, almost sure that Mr. West was her friend’s lover.
“He writes beautiful things that don’t sell,” Hilda replied a trifle bitterly, “and he makes a poor but decent living from a wretched provincial paper. And,” she continued with a change of tone, “there isn’t a better man on this earth—nor a prouder. I’m telling you this, Kitty, because you are likely to meet him pretty often. He has refused a post worth £1,500 a year offered him by my brother.”
“Oh, why?”
“Because at Cromer, four years ago, he saved me from drowning, and he refuses to be paid for that. There’s pride for you!”
“Isn’t it more than pride?” Kitty softly ventured.
Miss Risk passed to the window and drew up the blind, remarking: “He is going to take us to the theatre one night soon.”
Kitty clasped her hands in rapture. “I seem to have come into Heaven!”