“Now, papa, you know you are joking; you always go to the Peak.”

“But I am going with you to the seaside this summer, Kitty.  I wish my little daughter to have her whim for once.”

“You are better than there is any occasion for, papa.  I don’t want either the Branch or Saratoga this year.  Sarah Cooper is at the Branch with her snobby little husband and her extravagant toilettes; I’m not going to be patronized by her.  And Jack and his learned lady are at Saratoga.  I don’t want to make Mrs. Warner jealous, but I’m afraid I couldn’t help it.  I think you had better keep me out of temptation.”

“Where must we go, then?”

“Well, I suppose we might as well go to the Peak.  I shall not want many new dresses there; and then, papa, you are so good to me all the time, you deserve your own way about your holiday.”

And Tom Duffan said, “Thank you, Kitty,” in such a peculiar way that Kitty lost all her wits, blushed crimson, dropped her fan, and finally left the room with the lamest of excuses.  And then Mrs. Duffan said, “Tom, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!  If men know a thing past ordinary, they must blab it, either with a look or a word or a letter; I shouldn’t wonder if Kitty told you to-night she was going to the Branch, and asked you for a $500 check—­serve you right, too.”

But if Kitty had any such intentions, Max Raymond changed them.  Kitty went very sweetly to the Peak, and two days afterward Max Raymond, straying up the hills with his fishing rod, strayed upon Tom Duffan, sketching.  Max did a great deal of fishing that summer, and at the end of it Tom Duffan’s pretty daughter was inextricably caught.  She had no will but Max’s will, and no way but his way.  She had promised him never to marry any one but him; she had vowed she would love him, and only him, to the end of her life.

All these obligations without a shadow or a doubt from the prudent little body.  Yet she knew nothing of Max’s family or antecedents; she had taken his appearance and manners, and her father’s and mother’s respectful admission of his friendship, as guarantee sufficient.  She remembered that Jack, that first night in the theatre, had said something about studying law together; and with these items, and the satisfactory fact that he always had plenty of money, Kitty had given her whole heart, without conditions and without hostages.

Nor would she mar the placid measure of her content by questioning; it was enough that her father and mother were satisfied with her choice.  When they returned to the city, congratulations, presents and preparations filled every hour.  Kitty’s importance gave her back a great deal of her old dictatorial way.  In the matter of toilettes she would not suffer even Max to interfere.  “Results were all men had to do with,” she said; “everything was inartistic to them but a few yards of linen and a straight petticoat.”

Max sighed over the flounces and flutings and lace and ribbons, and talked about “unadorned beauty;” and then, when Kitty exhibited results, went into rhapsodies of wonder and admiration.  Kitty was very triumphant in those days, but a little drop of mortification was in store for her.  She was exhibiting all her pretty things one day to a friend, whose congratulations found their climax in the following statement: