"How have I had the misfortune to offend you?" said Rupert, in a voice from which he could not banish irony as completely as he would have liked to do.

"You said so yourself," replied Kitty, facing him with the dignity of a small princess. "You said that you were not my friend now."

"When did I make that statement?" said Rupert, lifting his eyebrows.

"Last night. And I knew it. You are not kind as you used to be. It does not matter to me at all; only I felt that I did not like to keep these things—and I brought them back."

"And what am I to do with them?" said Rupert, approaching the sofa and looking at the untidy little heap. He gave a subdued laugh, which offended Kitty dreadfully.

"I don't see anything to laugh at," she said.

"Neither do I." But the smile still trembled on his finely-cut mouth. "What did you mean me to do with these things?" he asked. "These are trifles: why don't you throw them into the fire if you don't value them?"

"They are not all trifles; and I did value them before you came to see us this time," said Kitty, with a lugubriousness which ought to have convinced him of her sincerity. "There are some bangles, and a cup and saucer, and two books; and there is the chain that you sent me by Mr. Luttrell in the autumn."

"Ah, that chain," said Vivian, and then he took it up and weighed it lightly in his hand. "I have never seen you wear it. I thought at first that you had got it on last night: but my eyes deceived me. My sight is not so good as it used to be. Really, Miss Heron, you make me ashamed of my trumpery gifts: pray take them away, and let me give you something prettier on your next birthday for old acquaintance sake."

"No, indeed!" said Kitty.

"And why not? Because I don't treat you precisely as I did when you were twelve? You really would not like it if I did. No, I shall be seriously offended if you do not take these things away and say no more about them. It would be perfectly impossible for me to take them back; and I think you will see—afterwards—that you should not have asked me to do so."

The accents of that calmly inflexible voice were terrible to Kitty. He turned to the window and looked out, but, becoming impatient of the silence, walked back to her again, and saw that her face had grown white, and was quivering as if she had received a blow. Her eyes were fixed upon the sofa, and her fingers held the chain which he had quietly placed within them; but it was evident that she was doing battle with herself to prevent the tears from falling. Rupert felt some remorse: and then hardened himself by a remembrance of the glances that had been exchanged between her and Hugo in that very room the night before.

"I am old enough to be your father, you know," he began, gravely. This statement was not quite true, but it was true enough for conversational purposes. "I have sent you presents on your birthday since you were a very little girl, and I hope I may always do so. There is no need for you to reject them, because I think it well to remember that you are not a child any longer, but a young lady who has 'come out,' and wears long frocks, and does her hair very elaborately," he said, casting a smiling glance at Kitty's carefully-frizzled head. "I certainly do not wish to cease to be friends with—all of you; and I hope you will not drive me away from a house where I have been accustomed to forget the cares of the world a little, and find pleasant companionship and relaxation."

"Oh, Mr. Vivian!" said Kitty, in a loud whisper. The suggestion that she had power to drive him away seemed almost impious. She felt completely crushed.

"Don't think any more about it," said Rupert, kindly, if condescendingly. "I never wished to be less of a friend to you than I was when you lived in Gower-street; but you must remember that you are a great deal altered from the little girl that I used to know."

Kitty could not speak; she stooped and began to gather the presents again into her apron. Vivian came and helped her. He could not forbear giving her hand a little kindly pat when he had finished, as if he had been dealing with a child. But the playful caress, if such it might be called, had no effect on Kitty's sore and angry feelings. She was terribly ashamed of herself now: she could hardly bear to remember his calmly superior tone, his words of advice, which seemed to place her on a so much lower footing than himself.

But in a day or two this feeling wore off. He was so kindly and friendly in manner, that she was emboldened to laugh at the recollection of the tone in which he had alluded to her elaborately-dressed hair and long dresses, and to devise a way of surprising him. She came down one day to afternoon tea in an old school-girlish dress of blue serge, rather short about the ankles, a red and white pinafore, and a crimson sash. Her hair was loose about her neck, and had been combed over her forehead in the fashion in which she wore it in her childish days. Thus attired, she looked about fourteen years old, and the shy way in which she glanced at the company from under her eyelashes, added to the impression of extreme youth. To carry out the character, she held a battledore and shuttlecock in her hand.

"Kitty, are you rehearsing for a fancy ball?" said Mrs. Heron.

"No, Isabel. I only thought I would try to transform myself into a little girl again, and see what it felt like. Do I look very young indeed?"

"You look about twelve. You absurd child!"

"Is the battledore for effect, or are you going to play a game with it?" asked Rupert, who had been surveying her with cold criticism in his eyes.

"For effect, of course. Don't you think it is a very successful attempt?" she said, looking up at him saucily.

He made no answer. Elizabeth wanted the tea-kettle at that moment, and he moved to fetch it. Hugo Luttrell, however, who was paying a call at the house, was ready enough with a reply.

"It could not be more successful," he said, looking at her admiringly. "I suppose"—in a lowered tone—"that you looked like this in the school-room. I am glad those days are over, at any rate."

"I am not," said Kitty, helping herself to bread and butter. "I should like them all over again—lessons and all." She stole a glance at Rupert, but his still face betrayed no consciousness of her remark. "I am going to keep up my character. I am going to play at battledore and shuttlecock with the boys in the dining-room. Who will come, too? Qui m'aime me suit."

"Then I will be the first to follow," said Hugo, in her ear.

She pouted and drank her tea, glancing half-reluctantly toward Rupert. But he would not heed.

"I will come, too," said Elizabeth, relieving the awkwardness of a rather long pause. "I always like to see you play. Kitty is as light as a bird," she added to Mr. Vivian, who bowed and looked profoundly uninterested.

Nevertheless, in a few minutes he found the drawing-room so dull without the young people, that he, too, descended to see what was going on. He heard the sound of counting in breathless voices as he drew near the drawing-room. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, three hundred. One, two, three——"

"Kitty and Mr. Luttrell have kept up to three hundred and three, Mr. Vivian!" cried one of the boys as he entered the room.

Mr. Vivian joined the spectators. It was a pretty sight. Kitty, with her floating locks, flushed face, trim, light figure, and unerring accuracy of eye, was well measured against Hugo's lithe grace and dexterity. The two went on until eight hundred and twenty had been reached; then the shuttlecock fell to the ground. Kitty had glanced aside and missed her aim.

"You must try, now, Mr. Vivian," she said, advancing towards him, battledore in hand, and smiling triumphantly in his face.

"No, thank you," said Rupert, who had been shading his eyes with one hand, as if the light of the lamps had tried them: "I could not see."

"Could you not? Oh, you are short-sighted, perhaps. Ah! there go Hugo and Johnny. This is better than being grown-up, I think. Am I like the little girl that you used to know in Gower-street now, Mr. Vivian?"

It was perhaps her naming Hugo so familiarly that caused Rupert to reply, with a smile that was more cutting than reproof would have been:—

"I prefer the little girl in Gower-street still."

From the colour that instantly overspread her face and neck, he saw that she was hurt or offended—he did not know which. She left his side immediately, and plunged into the game with renewed ardour. She played until Hugo left the house about seven o'clock; and then she rushed up to her room and bolted herself in with unnecessary violence. She came down to dinner in a costume as different as possible from the one which she had worn in the afternoon. Her dress was of some shining white stuff, very long, very much trimmed, cut very low at the neck; her hair was once more touzled, curled and pinned, in its most elaborate fashion; and her gold necklet and bracelets were only fit for a dinner-party. It is to be feared that Rupert Vivian did not admire her taste in dress. If she had worn white cotton it would had pleased him better.

There was a wall between them once more. She was more conscious of it than he was, but he did not perceive that something was wrong. He saw that she would not look at him, would not speak to him; he supposed that he had offended her. He himself was aware of an increasing feeling of dissatisfaction—whether with her, or with her circumstances, he could not define—and this feeling found expression in a sentence which he addressed to her two days after the game of battledore and shuttlecock. Hugo had been to the house again, and had been even less guarded than usual in his love-making. Kitty meant to put a stop to it sooner or later; but she did not quite know how to do it (not having had much experience in these matters, in spite of the coquettishness which Rupert attributed to her), and also she did not want to do it just at present, because of her instinctive knowledge of the fact that it annoyed Mr. Vivian. She was too much of a child to know that she was playing with edged tools.

So she allowed Hugo a very long hand-clasp when he said good-bye, and held a whispered consultation with him at the door in a confidential manner, which put Rupert very much out of temper. Then she came back to the drawing-room fire, laughing a little, with an air of pretty triumph. Rupert was leaning against the mantelpiece; no one else was in the room. Kitty knelt down on the rug, and warmed her hands at the fire.

"We have such a delightful secret, Hugo and I," she said, brightly. "You would never guess what it was. Shall I tell it to you?"

"No," he answered, shortly.

"No?" She lifted her eyebrows in astonishment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "You are not very polite to me, Mr. Vivian!" she said, half-playfully, half-pettishly.

"I do not wish to share any secret that you and Mr. Hugo Luttrell may have between you," said Rupert, with emphasis.

Kitty's face changed a little. "Don't you like him?" she said, in a rather timid voice.

"Before I answer I should like to know whether you are engaged to marry him," said Mr. Vivian.

"Certainly not. I never dreamt of such a thing. You ought not to ask such a question," said Kitty, turning scarlet.

"I suppose I ought not. I beg your pardon. But I thought it was the case."

"Why should you think so?" said Kitty, turning her face away from him. "You would have heard about it, you know—and besides—nobody ever thought of such a thing."

"Excuse me: Mr. Luttrell seems to have thought of it," said Rupert, with rather an angry laugh.

"What Mr. Luttrell thinks of is no business of yours," said Kitty.

"You cannot deny it then!" exclaimed Vivian, with a mixture of bitterness and sarcastic triumph in his tone.

She made no answer. He could not see her face, but the way in which she was twisting her fingers together spoke of some agitation. He tried to master himself; but he was under the empire of an emotion of which he himself had not exactly grasped the meaning nor estimated the power. He walked to the window and back again somewhat uncertainly; then paused at about two yards' distance from her kneeling figure, and addressed her in a voice which he kept carefully free from any trace of excitement.

"I have no right to speak, I know," he said, "and, if I were not so much older than yourself, or if I had not promised to be your friend, Kitty, I would keep silence. I want you to be on your guard with that man. He is not the sort of man that you ought to encourage, or whom you would find any happiness in loving."

"I thought it was not considered generous for one man to blacken another's character behind his back," said Kitty, quickly.

"Well, you are right, it is not. If I had put myself into rivalry with Hugo Luttrell, of course, I should have to hold my tongue. But as I am only an outsider—an old friend who takes a kindly interest in the child that he has seen grow up—I think I am justified in saying, Kitty, that I do not consider young Luttrell worthy of you."

The calm, unimpassioned tones produced their usual effect on poor Kitty. She felt thoroughly crushed. And yet there was a rising anger in her heart. What reason had Rupert Vivian to hold himself so far aloof from her? Was he not Percival's friend? Why should he look down from such heights of superiority upon Percival's sister?

"I speak to you in this way," Rupert went on, with studied quietness, "because you have less of the guardianship usually given to girls of your age than most girls have. Mrs. Heron is, I know, exceedingly kind and amiable, but she has her own little ones to think of, and then she, too, is young. Miss Murray, although sensible and right-thinking in every way, is too near your own age to be a guide for you. Percival is away. Therefore, you must let me take an elder brother's place to you for once, and warn you when I see that you are in danger."

Kitty had risen from her knees, and was now standing, with her face still averted, and her lips hidden by a feather fan which she had taken from the mantelpiece. There was a sharper ring in her voice as she replied.

"You seem to think I need warning. You seem to think I cannot take care of myself. You have reminded me once or twice lately that I was a woman now and not a child. Pray, allow me the woman's privilege of choosing for myself."

"I am sorry to have displeased you," said Vivian, gravely. "Am I to understand that my warning comes too late?"

There was a moment's pause before she answered coldly:—

"Quite too late."

"Your choice has fallen upon Hugo Luttrell?"

Kitty was stripping the feathers ruthlessly from her fan. She answered with an agitated little laugh:

"That is not a fair question. You had better ask him."

"I think I do not need," said Rupert. Then, in a low and rather ironical tone, he added, "Pray accept my congratulations." She bowed her head with a scornful smile, and let him leave the room without another word. What was the use of speaking? The severance was complete between them now.

They had quarrelled before, but Kitty felt, bitterly enough, that now they were not quarrelling. She had built up a barrier between them which he was the last man to tear down. He would simply turn his back upon her now and go his own way. And she did not know how to call him back. She felt vaguely that her innocent little wiles were lost upon him. She might put on her prettiest dresses, and sing her sweetest songs, but they would never cause him to linger a moment longer by her side than was absolutely necessary. He had given her up.

She felt, too, with a great swelling of heart, that her roused pride had made her imply what was not true. He would always think that she was engaged to Hugo Luttrell. She had, at least, made him understand that she was prepared to accept Hugo when he proposed to her. And all the world knew that Hugo meant to propose—Kitty herself knew it best of all.

The day came on which Rupert was to return to London. Scarcely a word had been interchanged between him and Kitty since the conversation which has been recorded. She thought, as she stole furtive glances towards him from time to time, that he looked harassed, and even depressed, but in manner he was more cheerful than it was his custom to be. When the time came for saying good-bye, he held out his hand to her with a kindly smile.

"Come, Kitty," he said, "let us be friends."

Her heart gave a wild leap which seemed almost to suffocate her; she looked up into his face with changing colour and eager eyes.

"I am sorry," she began, with a little gasp. "I did not mean all I said the other day, and I wanted to tell you——"

To herself it seemed as if these words were a tremendous self-betrayal; to Vivian they were less than nothing—commonplace sentences enough; uttered in a frightened, childish tone.

"Did you not mean it all?" he said, giving her hand a friendly pressure. "Well, never mind; neither did I. We are quits, are we not? I will not obtrude my advice upon you again, and you must forgive me for having already done so. Good-bye, my dear child; I trust you will be happy."

"I shall never be happy," said Kitty, withdrawing her hand from his, "never, never, never!" And then she burst into tears and rushed out of the room.

Vivian looked after her with a slightly puzzled expression, but did not attempt to call her back.

It was not a very favourable day for Hugo's suit, and he was received that afternoon in anything but a sunshiny mood by Miss Heron. For almost the first time she snubbed him unmercifully, but he had been treated with so much graciousness on all previous occasions that the snubs did not produce very much impression upon him. And, finding himself alone with her for a few minutes, he was rash enough to make the venture upon which he had set his heart, without considering whether he had chosen the best moment for the experiment or not. Accordingly, he failed. A few brief words passed between them, but the few were sufficient to convince Hugo Luttrell that he had never won Kitty Heron's heart. To his infinite surprise and mortification, she refused his offer of marriage most decidedly.