"How is Miss Levey?" Louie asked, at a loss what else to say.
"Oh, in the pink—but the soul's the chief thing; what shall it profit a man; and I don't know whether her soul's in the pink. Do you always hold with the Church of England, Louie?" she asked earnestly.
There was nothing to be made of her. She ran on weakly, irresponsibly, from trifle to trifle, and it was at Louie's own risk that she gave her talk any significance at all.... Suddenly she insisted that she herself had broken the engagement, not he. She spoke of his place in the Company—it was the Freight and Ballast Company; it appeared to be a "permanency." He was getting on—on; he wouldn't polish brasses and take the lodgers' boots to be mended!... As she talked, Louie looked round the poor, neat little bedroom. It had framed texts and a picture of a lady shipwrecked in a nightgown; this was entitled "Simply to Thy Cross I cling." There was a good deal of muslin about, tied back with flyblown bows.
But suddenly Kitty seemed to remember something. Louie was once more gently patting the hand on the counterpane when she gave a quick little clutch and sat up.
"They wrote to you to come, didn't they?" she asked, looking hard at Louie.
"Yes, dear. I'd have come sooner if I'd known. The letter was sent on from Mortlake Road. I came as soon as I got it."
"That's all right," said Kitty, nodding mysteriously again. "I want to talk to you. Is the door shut?"
"Yes; but don't talk. Let me talk to you instead."
"No; there's something I want to say, and I shall forget it if I don't say it now.... You heard about it, didn't you? I don't mean the glad tidings for all——"
"Lie down, dear." (Kitty was squatting up in bed.) "Tell me the next time I come. I'll come again."