Meantime Kitty sat on the bench, stunned.  Never before in all her life had such a thing happened.  True, young men had at times attempted to kiss her, but not in this fashion.  A rough embrace, a kiss on her cheek, and he had gone.  Not a word, not a sign of apology.  She could not have been more astounded had a thunder-bolt struck at her feet, nor more bereft of action.  She must have sat there fully ten minutes without movement.  From Thomas, the guileless, this!  What did it mean?  She could not understand.  Had he instantly begged forgiveness, had he made protestations of sentiment, a glimmering would have been hers.  Nothing; he had kissed her and walked away:  as he might have kissed Celeste, and had, for all she knew!

When the numbing sense of astonishment passed away, it left her cold with anger.  Kitty was a dignified young lady, and she would not tolerate such an affront from any man alive.  It was more than an affront; it was a dire catastrophe.  What should she do now?  What would become of all her wonderfully maneuvered plans?

She went directly to her room and flung herself upon the bed, bewildered and unhappy.  And there Killigrew found her.  He was a wise old man, deeply versed in humanity, having passed his way up through all sorts and conditions of it to his present peaceful state.

“Kittibudget, what the deuce is all this about? . . .  You’ve been crying!”

“Supposing I have?”—­came muffled from the pillows.

“What have you been doing to Thomas?”

“I?” she shot back, sitting up, her eyes blazing.  “He kissed me, dad, as he probably kisses his English barmaids.”

“Kitty, girl, you’re as pretty as a primrose.  I don’t think Thomas was really accountable.”

“Are you defending him?”—­blankly.

“No.  The strange part of it is, I don’t think Thomas wants to be defended.  A few minutes ago he came to me and told me what he had done.  He is leaving.”

The anger went out of her eyes, snuffed—­candle-wise.  “Leaving?”

“Leaving.  He asked me for the motor to the station.”

“Leaving!  Well, that’s about the only possible thing he could do, under the circumstances.  He has a good excuse.”  Excuse!  Kitty’s nimble mind reached out and touched Thomas’ Machiavellian inspiration.

“Hang it, Kitty, I had to run out into the lilacs to laugh!  Can’t this be smoothed over some way?  I like that boy; I don’t care if he is a Britisher and sometimes as simple as a fool.  When I think of the other light-headed duffers who call themselves gentlemen . . .  Pah!  They drink my whiskies, smoke my cigars, and dub me an old Mick behind my back.  They run around with silly chorus-girls and play poker till sun-up, and never do an honest day’s work.  It takes a brave man to come to me and frankly say that he has insulted my daughter.”

“He said that?” Behind her lips Kitty was already smiling.  “You are acting very strangely, dad.”