Kitty came to see me yesterday. Her mortification at my living in
Scarborough Square is poignant. Not since she learned of my doing so
has her amazement, her incredulity, her indignation and resentment,
lessened in the least, but her curiosity is great and her affection
sincere, and yesterday she yielded to both.

She was on her wedding journey when I left the house in which for
many years we had lived together, and, knowing it would spoil her
trip did I tell of what I had done, I did not tell. Two days ago she
got back, and over the telephone I gave her my new address.

"But I can't understand--" During most of her visit Kitty was
crying. She cries easily and well. "I can't take it in, can't even
glimpse why you want to live in such a horrid old place. It's awful!"

"Oh no, it isn't. It's a very nice place. Look how the sun comes
through those little panes of glass in those deep windows and chirps
all over the floor. I never knew before how much company sunshine
could be; how many different things it could do, until I came to
Scarborough Square. This is a very interesting place, Kitty."

"It's fearful!" Kitty shuddered. "The sun shines much better on the
Avenue, and you might as well be dead as live in this part of the
town. When people ask me where you are I'm--"

"Ashamed to tell them?" I laughed. "Don't tell them, if the telling
mortifies you. Those who object to visiting me in my new home will
soon forget I'm living. Those to whom it does not matter where I
live will find where I am without asking you. I wouldn't bother."