“What can it mean, Koenigin?” I said.  “She looks as if she wanted to confess some sin, and was afraid to.”

“Some childish peccadillo,” said Koenigin.  “In spite of all her woman-of-the-world-ishness the child has a morbidly sensitive conscience, and is troubled about some nonsense that nobody else would think of twice.”

“Can it be that she has only been flirting, and is frightened to find how desperately in earnest he is?”

“Possibly,” replied Koenigin.  “But I fancy that she is too well used to that phase of affairs to let it worry her.  Wait a while and we shall see.”

We couldn’t make anything of it, but even the Jook became worried at last by Kitty’s queer behavior, and I suppose he thought he had better settle the matter.  For one evening, when I was keeping my room with a headache, I was awakened from a light sleep by a sound of voices on the piazza outside of my window.  It was some time before I was sufficiently wide awake to realize that the speakers were Kitty and the Jook, and when I did I was in a dilemma.  To let them know that I was there would be to overwhelm them both with confusion and interrupt their conversation at a most interesting point, for the Jook had evidently just made his declaration.  It was impossible for me to leave the room, for I was by no means in a costume to make my appearance in the public halls.  On the whole, I concluded that the best thing I could do would be to keep still and never, by word or look, to let either of them know of my most involuntary eavesdropping.

Kitty was speaking when I heard them first, talking in a broken, hesitating voice, which was very queer from our bright, fluent little Kitty:  “Mr. Warriner, you don’t know what a humbug you make me feel when you talk of ‘my innocence’ and ‘unconsciousness’ and ‘lack of vanity,’ and all the rest of it.  I have been feeling more and more what a vain, deceitful, hypocritical little wretch I am ever since I knew you.  I have been expecting you to find me out every day, and I almost hoped you would.”

“What do you mean, Miss Grey?” asked the Jook in tones of utter amazement, as well he might.

“Oh dear! how shall I tell you?” sighed poor Kitty; and I could feel her blushes burning through her words.  Then, with a sudden rush:  “Can’t you see?  I feel as if I had stolen your love, for it was all gained under false pretences.  You never would have cared for me if you had known what a miserable hypocrite I really was.  Why, that very first day I wasn’t afraid of the cow—­she didn’t even look at me—­but I saw you coming, and—­and—­Helen wouldn’t introduce you to me—­and it just struck me it would be a good chance, and so I rushed up to you and—­Oh! what will you think of me?”

“Think?” said the Jook:  “why, I think that while ninety-nine women out of a hundred are hypocrites, not one in a thousand has the courage to atone for it by an avowal like yours.  Not that it was exactly hypocrisy, either.”