(I
know; for a long time I, too, believed Thomas the most colossal ass
since Dobson.) Thomas gazed mournfully about the room. It was all
over. He had burned his bridges. It had been so pleasant, so
homelike; and he had begun to love these unpretentious people as if
they had been his very own.
Except that which had been expended on clothes, Thomas had most of his
salary. It would carry him along till he found something else to do.
To get away, immediately, was the main idea; he had found a door to the
trap. (The chamois-bag lay in his trunk, forgotten.)
"Your breakfast is ready, sir," announced the grave butler.
So Thomas ate his chops and potatoes and toast and drank his tea, alone.
And Killigrew, blinking tears, leaned against the stout branches of the
lilacs and buried his teeth in his coat-sleeve. He was as near
apoplexy as he was ever to come.
CHAPTER XVII
Meantime Kitty sat on the bench, stunned. Never before in all her life
had such a thing happened. True, young men had at times attempted to
kiss her, but not in this fashion.
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