"It's not my fault that we've met," she said, panting a little. "Don't look at me so—so unkindly. I know you don't want to see me. Why—why should we speak at all? I'm going away." And she turned with a gesture of farewell.
Alice Wensleydale laid a detaining hand on Kitty's arm.
"No! stay a moment. You are in black. You look ill."
Kitty turned towards her. They had moved on instinctively into the shelter of one of the narrow streets.
"My boy died—two months ago," she said, holding herself proudly aloof.
Lady Alice started.
"I hadn't heard. I'm very sorry for you. How old was he?"
"Three years old."
"Poor baby!" The words were very low and soft. "My boy—was fourteen. But you have other children?"
"No—and I don't want them. They might die, too."