She held out her hand, but Lady Hawborough appeared not to see it, and Kitty got outside the "stately and desirable mansion" and hastened home to enjoy a good cry.
When she made her appearance in the studio next morning, she found her father seated on his stool in an attitude of profound dismay, his long figure bowed, his rumpled hair clutched in his hands, his painting-brush between his teeth.
On the dais stood the wounded soldier, his face flushed, an expression of keen discomfort all over him.
"Here, look here, Kitty!" wailed her distracted parent. "Just listen to what this young man's been telling me? He says that you and he have got engaged! Heavens!"
"Quite true, father," said Kitty calmly, but with a blush.
"Oh, my goodness! And he tells me that he's poor, and has nothing to live on excepting his pay and a small allowance."
"That's true also, I believe, father," said Kitty. "I'm sorry; but it can't be helped. You'll have to paint me as 'The Mendicant's Bride.'"
"Don't joke about it, you foolish, abandoned girl!" groaned Mr. Thorold.
"But you don't want me to cry about it, Dad dear," said Kitty, going to him, taking the brush from between his teeth, and putting her arm round his neck. "Haven't you got anything to say for yourself?" she asked, addressing the discomfited young man.
"Not a word," he returned. "Said all I've got to say. And look at the effect of it!"