“Oh, jiminy!” cried Kit, as pleased as little Anne would surely be. “Helen, it beats the world! What a beauty! Little Anne will either die of it, or recover at her first glimpse of it.”
He took the kitten from Helen, who held it out by her thumb and forefinger, its legs drawn up into its downy stomach, and nestled it in his neck.
“You small, soft thing!” Kit said.
Helen flushed to her hair. Her eyes gave out a gleam, and she looked, as she felt, as if she would gladly have taken Kit in her arms—so big, so simple, so lovable he seemed with the “small, soft thing” creeping close to him trustingly.
“Give it to the child yourself, Kit, as soon as she is able to bear the emotion it will inspire. I want you to take it to her. Don’t say anything about me; let it be your gift. No!” Helen held up a protesting hand. “I don’t care to get credit for this sort of thing; I would if I wanted to win the child, but I don’t. I’ll give you the kitten; you give it to Anne, and we’ll all live happy for ever after.”
“Anne will be told correctly the tale of your thoughtfulness, of how you brought pussyette to her,” said Kit. “What a curious mixture you are, Nell! I wonder if you pose as a metallic creature, and that it is all pose? I’ll take this winner to Minerva.”
He went away with the kitten purring close to his face, the basket swinging in his hand.
Helen sighed. She turned excited eyes upon Miss Carrington.
“He certainly is an attractive boy,” she said. “He doesn’t know a thing of the engagement, that’s clear. Wait till after dinner. If he does mind, it would be a pity to damage his inspiring appetite. I love to see Kit pitch in!”
At dinner that night Kit certainly “pitched in.” He talked more than was his custom and he talked well. Miss Carrington, who was sharply critical of him, not always satisfied with his simplicity, was pleased to hear him, announcing opinions on some of the events of the day, well-expressed, logically thought-out from intelligent premises.