“But how?”

“They’re always bothering me, always trying to get at you through me.  They’re always asking me to tea to meet people in the hope that I’ll ask them back to meet you.  I’m worn out with keeping them off you.  Some day all Harmouth will come bursting into your drawing-room over my prostrate form, flattened out upon the door-mat.”

“Never mind.”

“I wouldn’t, sweetheart, if they really cared about you.  But they don’t.  If you lost your money and your social position to-morrow they wouldn’t care a rap.  That’s why I hate them.”

“Why do you visit them if you hate them?”

“Because, as I told you, I hunger and thirst for amusement, and they do amuse me when they don’t make me ill.”

“Dear Kitty, I’m sure they’re nicer than you think.  Most people are, you know.”

“If you think so, why don’t you visit them?” snapped Kitty.

“I would, if—­”

“If they ceased to be amusing; if they broke their legs or lost their money, or if they got paralytic strokes, or something.  You’d visit them in their affliction, but not in the ordinary playful circumstances of life.  That’s because you’re an angel. I,” said Miss Palliser sententiously, “am not.  Why do I always come to you when I feel most hopelessly the other thing?”

Lucia said something that had a very soothing effect; it sounded like “Skittles!” but the word was “Kitti-kin!”

“Lucy, I shouldn’t be such a bad sort if I lived with you.  I’ve been here exactly twenty minutes, and I’ve laid in enough goodness to last me for a week.  And now,” said Miss Palliser with decision, “I’m going.”

Lucia looked up in some trepidation.

“Where are you going to?”

“I am going—­to choose that book.”

“Oh, Kitty, do be careful.”

“I am always careful,” said Miss Palliser, “in choosing a book.”

In about ten minutes’ time she returned.  Her chastened mood had vanished.

“Lucia,” said she, “you have an immense regard for that young man.”

“How do you know that I have an immense regard for him?”

“I suppose you expect me to say that I can tell by your manner.  I can’t.  Your manner is perfection.  It’s by Robert’s manner that I judged.  Robert’s manner is not perfection; for a footman, you know, it’s a shade too eager, too emotional.”

“That, to my mind, is the charm of Robert.”

“Still, there are drawbacks.  A footman’s face ought not to betray the feelings of his mistress.  That’s how I knew that Mabel Flosser was cooling off—­by the increasing frostiness of Blundell.  I shall feel sure of you, Lucia, as long as Robert continues to struggle against his fascinating smile.  Take my advice—­if you should ever cherish a secret passion, get rid of Robert, for, sure as fate, he’ll give you away.  Perhaps,” she added meditatively, it was a little mean of me.”