“You’ve done a very cruel thing.”

“Laura!”

“Yes, I sha’n’t take back my words,—­you have done a very cruel thing.”

“For pity’s sake, what do you mean?”

“You may well say ‘for pity’s sake;’” and then Laura burst forth and repeated, word for word, the conversation that had transpired between Esther and herself, concluding with, “And you—­you, Kitty, are to blame for this, for it is you who have prejudiced the girls against Esther with your talk about McVane Street and the foreigners in that neighborhood.”

“I?  Just my little fun about McVane Street and your sunset tea there?”

“Yes, just your little fun!  I know what your fun is!  Oh, Kitty, Kitty, I did think you had a kind heart!  But to be the means of hurting anybody, as you have hurt Esther,—­it is—­it is—­”

“Laura, Laura, don’t,” as Laura here broke down in a little fit of sobbing.  “Of course I didn’t know—­I didn’t think.  Oh, dear, I’ll tell the girls I didn’t mean a word I said,—­that I’m the biggest liar in town; that Esther is an heiress; that—­that—­oh, I’ll do or say anything, if you’ll only stop crying, Laura.  There, there,” as Laura tried to stifle a fresh sob, “that’s right, take my handkerchief,—­yours is sopping wet, and—­My goodness, there comes Maud Aplin—­she must not see us sniffing and sobbing like this, she’ll say we’ve had a quarrel.  Here, let us go into the little recitation-room, quick now, before she sees us.”

And into the little recitation-room Laura was very willing to go and hide her tear-stained face from inquisitive eyes, while Kitty, penitent and overcome more by the spectacle of these tears than by a sense of her own shortcomings, followed briskly after, with this cheerful little running fire of remarks, anent the Art Club lecturer:  “I’m just crazy—­crazy to see this Monsieur Baudouin; for what do you think Flo Aplin says?  That he is a real viscomte or marquis, or something of that sort, but that he came into his title only a year or two ago, and is much prouder of his reputation as an art authority and critic and his name, Pierre Baudouin,—­it’s his own name, you know,—­and he won his reputation under that.  The Aplins met him last year in Paris.  Windlow Aplin, who is studying art there, just swears by him, and says the artists dote on him, and Flo says he is perfectly elegant.  Etching is his great fad now, and he is going to lecture this afternoon on etching and etchers.  Oh, I’m just crazy to see and hear him, aren’t you?”

Laura had by this time conquered her tears, thanks to Kitty’s adroitness, and, with a half-humorous, half-grateful appreciation of this adroitness, she thought to herself as she walked round to the Art Club with Kitty that afternoon, “Kitty has a good heart, after all.”