“We shall have dinner soon,” said Maude sharply.  “I should think you could wait until then.”

“I will have some cake, if you really want me to,” said Kitty, looking up at Lettice with a smile, the first she had been able to call to her lips.  She liked Lettice the better of the two girls.

“Will you?” cried Lettice delightedly.  “Then I will go and ask for something nice for you.  I am sure Parkin will give me something if I promise her my little pansy brooch;” and off she went, returning a moment later with a plateful of huge slices of orange cake.

Kitty looked at the slices in dismay.  “I can’t eat a whole one,” she said.  “I shouldn’t have time either, for I expect father will be down soon.”

“Nonsense! you must.  There is no knife to cut them smaller,” cried Lettice, already making marked inroads on a slice herself.  “Quick, take some, or I shall drop the plate.”

Kitty unwillingly did as she was told, only to regret it bitterly as, at the first mouthful, a shower of crumbs descended on the polished floor.  After that experience it took her so long to make up her mind to take a second bite, that just as she did so voices were heard outside the door, the handle was turned, and Lady Kitson, followed by Dr. Trenire, entered the room.  At the first sounds Lettice had seized the plate of cake and made a hasty exit through the conservatory, but for Kitty there was no such escape.

“Well, dear, are you ready to face the storm?” asked her father, smiling down at her.

“I think I must lend you a wrap of some sort,” said Lady Kitson.  “I suppose you have none?”

Kitty, her mouth full of cake and one hand grasping the remainder, tried to swallow it hastily that she might reply, and, of course, choked.  As she often remarked afterwards, the misery of that visit would not have been complete without that final blow.  Covered with shame and confusion, she rose awkwardly from her chair, looking about her for some place whereon to deposit that dreadful cake.  There was none.  The tables were covered with books and frames, vases and ornaments, but the vases were full of flowers, and there was not even a friendly flower-pot saucer.  There was nothing for her to do but carry it with her.

“Don’t hurry,” said Lady Kitson politely; “stay and finish your cake.”

“I can’t,” said Kitty desperately.

She could not even say “thank you.”  In fact, there seemed so little to give thanks for that it never entered her head to do so.

“Then we will start at once,” said her father briskly; and to her immense relief she soon found herself, her farewells said, mounting once more the dear homely carriage.  With the reins between her fingers, and the responsibility on her of driving through the storm and darkness, some of her courage and self-respect returned, but not until she had flung that wretched cake far from her into the darkness.