But--"
"Died! What do you mean, Kitty?" said Madame d'Estrees, in bewilderment.
"When William wrote to me I thought he meant you had overtired
yourself."
"Oh, well, the doctors said it was touch and go," said Kitty,
indifferently. "But, of course, it wasn't. I'm much too tough. And then
they fussed about one's heart. And that's all nonsense, too. I couldn't
die if I tried."
But Madame d'Estrees pondered--the bright, intermittent color, the
emaciation, the hollowness of the eyes. The effect, so far, was to add
to Kitty's natural distinction, to give, rather, a touch of pathos to a
face which even in its wildest mirth had in it something alien and
remote. But she, too, reflected that a little more, a very little more,
and--in a night--the face would have dropped its beauty, as a rose its
petals.
The group stood talking awhile on the steps outside the church. Kitty
and her mother exchanged addresses, Donna Laura opened her mouth once or
twice, and produced a few contorted smiles for Kitty's benefit, while
Colonel Warington tipped the sacristan, found the gondolier, and studied
the guide-book.
As Madame d'Estrees stepped into her gondola, assisted by him, she
tapped him on the arm.
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