"
"Go away Kitty, I'm busy."
"You've no business to be busy at five o'clock in the afternoon."
Miss Kitty Palliser's body was outside the window, but her head,
crowned with a marvellous double-peaked hat of Parma violets, was
already within the room.
"I'm dying of thirst," she said; "take me in and be kind to me and
give me tea."
Lucia rose and went to the window, reluctant but resigned. Scraps of
their conversation floated down to Mr. Rickman's end of the room.
"Yes, you may well look at my hat."
"I wasn't looking at it, I was looking through it."
"Well, if you can see through my hat, Lucia, you can see through me.
What do you think of it?"
"Of the hat? Oh, the hat is a poem."
"Isn't it? Did you ever see anything so inspired, so impassioned?"
"Inspired, but--don't you think--just a little, a little meaningless?"
"Meaningless? It's _packed_ with meaning."
"I should like to know what it means."
"If it means nothing else it means that I've been going to and fro
the whole blessed afternoon, paying calls in Harmouth for my sins."
"Poor Kitty."
"The last three times I paid calls in Harmouth," said poor Kitty, "I
sported a cycling skirt, the blousiest of blouses, and a tam-o'shanter
over my left ear. Of course everybody was in. So I thought if I went
like this--brand new frock--swagger hat--white gloves--that everybody
would be out."
"And were they?"
"No. Just like my luck--they were all--all in!"
"And yet you have the audacity to come here and ask for tea?"
"For Goodness' sake, don't talk of tea.
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