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When she went into Kitty's little room, a pretty, pink little

room, full of knick-knacks in vieux saxe, as fresh, and pink, and

white, and gay as Kitty herself had been two months ago, Dolly

remembered how they had decorated the room the year before

together, with what love and gaiety. Her heart turned cold when

she saw Kitty sitting on a low chair near the door, her eyes

fixed immovably on a corner of the rug. Kitty glanced at her

sister, and the cold, rather ill-tempered expression of her face

did not change.

"I'm just going now, and I shall have to keep in and you won't be

able to come to see me," said Dolly, sitting down beside her. "I

want to talk to you."

"What about?" Kitty asked swiftly, lifting her head in dismay.

"What should it be, but your trouble?"

"I have no trouble."

"Nonsense, Kitty. Do you suppose I could help knowing? I know all

about it. And believe me, it's of so little consequence.... We've

all been through it."

Kitty did not speak, and her face had a stern expression.