She still remained in the old apartment; sentiment as much as anything.
She had been born in it and her happiest days had been spent there. She
lived alone, without help, being one of that singular type of womanhood
that is impervious to the rust of loneliness. Her daily activities
sufficed the gregarious instincts, and it was often a relief to move
about in silence.

Among other things Kitty had foresight. She had learned that a little
money in the background was the most satisfying thing in existence. So
many times she and her mother had just reached the insurance check, with
grumbling bill collectors in the hall, that she was determined never to
be poor. She had to fight constantly her love of finery inherited from
her mother, and her love of good times inherited from her father. So she
established a bank account, and to date had not drawn a check against
it; which speaks well for her will power, an attribute cultivated, not
inherited.

Kitty was as pleasing to the eye as a basket of fruit. Her beauty was
animated. There was an expression in her eyes and on her lips that spoke
of laughter always on tiptoe. An enviable inheritance, this, the desire
to laugh, to be searching always for a vent to laughter; it is something
money cannot buy, something not to be cultivated; a true gift of
the gods. This desire to laugh is found invariably in the tender and
valorous; and Kitty was both. Brown hair with running threads of
gold that was always catching light; slate-blue eyes with heavy black
fringe-Irish; colour that waxed and waned; and a healthy, shapely body.
Topped by a sparkling intellect these gifts made Kitty desirable of men.