As they all strolled down the church she looked keenly at Kitty.
"My dear child, how ill you look!--and your mourning! Ah, yes, of
course!"--she bit her lip--"I remember--the poor, poor boy--"
"Thank you!" said Kitty, hastily. "I got your letter--thank you very
much. Where are you staying? We've got rooms on the Grand Canal."
"Oh, but, Kitty!" cried Madame d'Estrees--"I was so sorry for you!"
"Were you?" said Kitty, under her breath. "Then, please, never speak of
him to me again!"
Startled and offended, Madame d'Estrees looked at her daughter. But what
she saw disarmed her. For once even she felt something like the pang of
a mother. "You're
dreadfully thin, Kitty!"
Kitty frowned with annoyance.
"It's not my fault," she said, pettishly. "I live on cream, and it's no
good. Of course, I know I'm an object and a scarecrow; but I'd rather
people didn't tell me."
"What nonsense,
chere enfant! You're much prettier than you ever
were."
A wild and fugitive radiance swept across the face beside her.
"Am I?" said Kitty, smiling. "That's all right! If I had died it
wouldn't matter, of course.
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