Miss Kite felt a pang of
jealousy shoot through her; this middle-aged Miss Kite seemed, on the
whole, a more attractive lady. There was a wholesomeness, a
broadmindedness about her that instinctively drew one towards her.
Not hampered, as Miss Kite herself was, by the necessity of appearing
to be somewhere between eighteen and twenty-two, this other Miss Kite
could talk sensibly, even brilliantly: one felt it. A thoroughly
"nice" woman this other Miss Kite; the real Miss Kite, though envious,
was bound to admit it. Miss Kite wished to goodness she had never
seen the woman. The glimpse of her had rendered Miss Kite
dissatisfied with herself.
"I am not a boy," explained the stranger; "and I had no intention of
being bold."
"I know," replied Miss Kite. "It was a silly remark. Whatever
induced me to make it, I can't think. Getting foolish in my old age,
I suppose."
The stranger laughed. "Surely you are not old."
"I'm thirty-nine," snapped out Miss Kite. "You don't call it young?"
"I think it a beautiful age," insisted the stranger; "young enough not
to have lost the joy of youth, old enough to have learnt sympathy."
"Oh, I daresay," returned Miss Kite, "any age you'd think beautiful.
I'm going to bed." Miss Kite rose. The paper fan had somehow got
itself broken. She threw the fragments into the fire.
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