"I can think of all sorts of things. At present I'm thinking of that. It does seem such an awful pity that you haven't married. A dear little, sweet little, good little thing like you—for you are good, Bunny. It's a shame that you should have to live in rage and fury, and be very miserable, and—and rather cruel, just because of that."
"If every word you said of me was true, I'd rather be myself than you, Mrs. Tailleur."
"That, Miss Keating, is purely a matter of taste. Unhappiness is all that's the matter with you. You'd be quite a kind woman if it wasn't for that. You see, I do understand you, Bunny. So it isn't very wise of you to leave me. Think what an awful time you'll have if you go and live with somebody who doesn't understand and won't make allowances. And you're not strong. You never will be as long as you're miserable. You'll go and live with ill old ladies and get into that state you were in at Matlock. And there won't be anybody to look after you. And, Bunny, you'll never marry—never; and it'll be simply awful. You'll go getting older and older and nervier and nervier, till you're so nervy that even the old ladies won't have you any more. Bad as I am, you'd better stop with me."
"Stop with you? How can I stop with you?"
"Well, you haven't told me yet why you can't."
"I can't tell you. I—I've written you a letter. It's there on the dressing-table."
Kitty went to the dressing-table.
"I am returning you my salary for the quarter I have been with you."
Kitty took up the letter.
"I'd rather you did not read it until after I am gone."