"Is not the costume yours?"
"Signorina, yes."
"I did not know you lent your clothes to one another."
Everitt muttered something about not wanting that particular costume
this week, and she went on to inquire in what character he was sitting
for Mr Everitt, to which he had to reply that he did not know. She
followed this up by asking a good many questions about himself, to which
he responded in a deprecatory manner, though he was conscious of
dangerously dropping the stupid vacancy behind which he had at first
entrenched himself. Everitt, indeed, who had gone through a succession
of London seasons without a heartache, had fallen a helpless victim in a
few hours. There was an extraordinary fascination for him in this girl
and her surroundings; he watched her furtively, called himself a fool
for being there, and would not have been anywhere else for the world.
Once she flung up the window and leaned out, resting on her finger-tips,
to call to the children, who this time had Sandy with them in the
garden. She was greeted by a shout.
"Come out, Kitty! Leave that stupid old painting. It's lovely
out-of-doors."
She laughed and shook her head.
"Kitty, I want something out of your garden."
"What?"
"That pink flower."
"Oh, you robber! Well, you may have it, but move it _very_ carefully,
and give it plenty of water. Where's mother?"
"Gone to the infirmary to see old Dickson. Kitty!" in a pleading voice.
"No; I can't spare any more. My poor garden will be bare."
"Only a clump of forget-me-nots. Yours are such beauties!"
She drew back laughing, and shut the window. For the first time Everitt
regretted the absence of Miss Aitcheson. Had she been here Kitty, might
have gone on talking, and he thought her voice the prettiest that he had
ever heard; but, after all, though he was unconscious of it, it was her
silent presence, and the opportunity for imagination which it afforded
him, which momentarily strengthened the spell. As for not seeing her
again, that idea had vanished for ever. See her he would, at whatever
risk; and even the waiting a few days--to which prudence, driven from
all her strongholds, fell back upon at the last--seemed a miserable
concession, to which it was more than doubtful if he would yield. Why,
in those few days some other man might come to the front!
It will be seen that Everitt was very far gone indeed.
He was trying to forget the stiffness of his arm, and he had quite
succeeded in forgetting Miss Aitcheson when she came in.
"Oh, Bell!" reproachfully from Kitty.
"Yes, my dear, it's too tiresome! But father has taken this fancy for
coming with me, and he has kept me waiting for ages. I made Hugh walk
with me, after all, and it is too late for any painting, and I am _very_
much disappointed."
"Yes," said Kitty regretfully, "it is too late. The time is up." To
Everitt--"You can go now, and please tell Mr Everitt that I am sorry
you cannot come again. Oh, and I will pay you."
Pay! Horrible humiliation, of which he had never thought, and yet which
he dared not refuse! He murmured something about waiting, but Kitty had
already her little purse in her hand, and was counting out the
shillings. It seemed to him as if he hardly knew where he was, as he
went out of the room with reluctant feet, and down the oak staircase
into the ground between the house and the Hospital, where the old men
stood about or sat in the warmly sheltered corners.