Canterbury, July 31,
The Royal Fountain.
I was never sure enough of Kitty, at first, to dare risk telling her about that [p91] little mistake of hers. She is such an elusive person that I spend all my time in wooing her, and can never lay the flattering unction to my soul that she is really won.
But after Aunt Celia had looked up my family record and given a provisional consent, and Papa Schuyler had cabled a reluctant blessing, I did not feel capable of any further self-restraint.
It was twilight here in Canterbury, and we were sitting on the vine-shaded veranda of Aunt Celia’s lodging. Kitty’s head was on my shoulder. There is something very queer about that; when Kitty’s head is on my shoulder, I am not capable of any consecutive train of thought. When she puts it there I see stars, then myriads of stars, then, oh! I can’t begin to enumerate the steps by which ecstasy mounts to delirium; but, at all events, any operation which demands exclusive use of the intellect [p92] is beyond me at these times. Still, I gathered my stray wits together, and said:
‘Kitty!’
‘Yes, Jack?’
‘Now that nothing but death or marriage can separate us, I have something to confess to you.’
‘Yes,’ she said serenely, ‘I know what you are going to say. He was a cow.’
I lifted her head from my shoulder sternly, and gazed into her childlike, candid eyes.
‘You mountain of deceit! How long have you known about it?’