"He hardly knows me," said Kitty, in a low voice of misery, as she clasped her hands round the baby of three, and looked into his face, as though she would drag from it some sign of mind and recognition.
But the blue eyes betrayed no glimmer of response, till suddenly, with a gesture as of infinite fatigue, the child threw itself back against her, laying its fair head upon her breast with a long sigh.
Kitty gave a sob, and bent over him, kissing—and kissing him.
"Dear Kitty!" said Lady Tranmore, much moved. "I think—partly—he is tired with the heat."
Kitty shook her head.
"Take him!" she said to the nurse—"take him! I can't bear it."
The nurse took him from her, and Kitty dried her tears with a kind of fierceness.
"There is the post!" she said, springing up, as though determined to throw off her grief as quickly as possible, while the nurse carried the child away.
The footman brought the letters across the lawn. There were some for Lady Tranmore and for Margaret French. In the general opening and reading that ensued, neither lady noticed Kitty for a while. Suddenly Margaret French looked up. She saw Kitty sitting motionless with a book on her lap, a book of which the wrapper lay on the grass beside her. Her finger kept a page; her eyes, full of excitement, were fixed on the distant horizon of the park; the hurried breathing was plainly noticeable under the thin bodice.
"Kitty—time to dress!" said Margaret, touching her.