"
Kitty, still staring at me, got up. "I never expect to understand
you. Neither does father. He's mortified to death about your coming
down here to live. He knows people are talking; so do I; and we
don't know what to say."
"Oh, people always talk! And don't say anything. No one escapes
criticism. It's human pastime to indulge in it. To prefer
Scarborough Square to the Avenue may be queer, but at present I do
prefer it. That's why I'm here. You can say that if you choose."
"You've got no business preferring it." Kitty snapped the buttons of
her glove with tearful emphasis. "Mrs. Jamieson said last night that
a person with eyes and eyelashes like yours had no right to live as
you are living, with just an old woman to do things for you. She
came down to see why you were here, but you wouldn't tell her. She
can't understand any more than I can."
I kissed Kitty good-by, but I did not try to make her understand. I
no longer try to make people understand things. Many of them can't.
Kitty is a dear child, adorably blue-eyed and pink-cheeked, and
possessed of an amount of worldly wisdom that is always amazing and
at times distressing, but much that interests me has, so far, never
interested her.
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