"Supposing I have?"--came muffled from the pillows.

"What have you been doing to Thomas?"

"I?" she shot back, sitting up, her eyes blazing. "He kissed me, dad, as
he probably kisses his English barmaids."

"Kitty, girl, you're as pretty as a primrose. I don't think Thomas was
really accountable."

"Are you defending him?"--blankly.

"No. The strange part of it is, I don't think Thomas wants to be
defended. A few minutes ago he came to me and told me what he had done.
He is leaving."

The anger went out of her eyes, snuffed--candle-wise. "Leaving?"

"Leaving. He asked me for the motor to the station."

"Leaving! Well, that's about the only possible thing he could do, under
the circumstances. He has a good excuse." Excuse! Kitty's nimble mind
reached out and touched Thomas' Machiavellian inspiration.

"Hang it, Kitty, I had to run out into the lilacs to laugh! Can't this
be smoothed over some way? I like that boy; I don't care if he is a
Britisher and sometimes as simple as a fool. When I think of the other
light-headed duffers who call themselves gentlemen . . . Pah! They
drink my whiskies, smoke my cigars, and dub me an old Mick behind my
back. They run around with silly chorus-girls and play poker till
sun-up, and never do an honest day's work. It takes a brave man to come
to me and frankly say that he has insulted my daughter."