was the Huguenot that asked the question.

"Not just this minute. Wait till I can think. Perhaps I'll tell her
upstairs. Now say good-bye before the chick comes, and go." And the
chick came on the scene just too late to criticise the _pose_.

"I say, mother!" this with the greatest _empressement_ of which
humanity and youth are capable. "I've got something I _must_ tell you!"

"What is it, kitten?"

"Tishy's head-over-ears in love with the shop-boy!"

"Sh-sh-sh-shish! You noisy little monkey, do consider! The neighbours
will hear every word you say." So they will, probably, as Miss Sally's
voice is very penetrating, and rings musically clear in the summer
night. Her attitude is that she doesn't care if they do.

"Besides they're only cats! And _nobody_ knows who Tishy is, or the
shop-boy. I'll come down and tell you all about it."

"We're coming up, darling!" You see, Sally had manifestoed down into
the garden from the landing of the stair, which was made of iron
openwork you knocked flower-pots down and broke, and you have had to
have a new one--that, at least, is how Ann put it. On the stair-top
Mrs. Nightingale stems the torrent of her daughter's revelation
because it's so late and Mr. Fenwick must get away.

"You must tell him all about it another time."

"I don't know whether it's any concern of his."

"Taken scrupulous, are we, all of a sudden?" says Fenwick, laughing.
"That cock won't fight, Miss Pussy! You'll have to tell me all about
it when I come to-morrow. Good-night, Mrs. Nightingale." A sort of
humorous formality in his voice makes Sally look from one to the
other, but it leads to nothing. Sally goes to see Fenwick depart,
and her mother goes upstairs with a candle. In a minute or so
Sally pelts up the stairs, leaving Ann and the cook to thumbscrew
on the shutter-panels of the street door, and make sure that
housebreaker-baffling bells are susceptible.

"Do you know, mamma, I really _did_ think--what do you think I thought?"

"What, darling?"

"I thought Mr. Fenwick was going to kiss me!" In fact, Fenwick had only
just remembered in time that family privileges must stand over till
after the revelation.

"Should you have minded if he had?"

"_Not a bit!_ Why should _anybody_ mind Mr. Fenwick kissing them? You
wouldn't yourself--you know you wouldn't! Come now, mother!"

"I shouldn't distress myself, poppet!" But words are mere wind; the
manner of them is everything, and the foreground of