Miss Merrindin chattered. She had the voice of a Neapolitan singing-girl. Wasn't Aunt Dora a dear? And wasn't her house perfectly sweet? She tried to push Kit into a flow of soul, to make him talk about the May Races, and dancing, and motor cars and Wimbledon, but Kit's soul refused to flow. He sat there and agreed smilingly with everything she said, and sensed her as a sort of s****l Chinese cracker jumping around his shyness.
Did he know "Why do I feel wicked?"
No, he didn't. What was it?
She flung herself at Aunt Dora's piano, and crashed out a Fox Trot, her whole body vibrating on the stool. She began to sing, while Kit sat there like a dolorous and dull dog on the point of howling.
Aunt Dora returned in the midst of all this brightness, followed by a very thin young woman with a f
