Part 20 (1/2)

Katharine sighed, and glanced nervously at Ted.

”Oh, I suppose he's all right,” she said, with the exaggerated solemnity that would have betrayed to any one who knew her well how close she was to laughter; ”but he isn't a bit new, is he? I mean, he only says the same things over again that the old poets said ever so much better. Don't you think so?”

”They all give you the hump, any way,” put in Ted. But Monty ignored his remark, and said that he never read any of the old poets; he preferred the new ones because they went so much deeper.

”Hang it all, Kitty; what a rum girl you are!” said Ted, in a disappointed tone. ”A chap never knows where to have you. I did think you were advanced, if you couldn't be anything else.”

At this point, Katharine yielded to an irresistible desire to laugh; and Ted looked anxiously at the friend to whom he had given such a false impression of her ”ideas.” But, to his surprise, the great Monty himself joined in her laughter, and seemed inexpressibly relieved to find that she was not nearly so intellectual as she had been painted, and it was therefore no longer inc.u.mbent on him to sustain the conversation at such a high pitch.

”Now that we have settled I am not advanced,” said Katharine, turning up her veil, ”supposing we have some tea.” And for the rest of the afternoon they behaved like rational beings, and discussed the low comedians and the comic papers.

”All the same,” Ted complained, when Monty had gone, ”he's awfully clever, really. You may rot as much as you like, but Monty does know about things. You don't know what a fool he makes _me_ feel.”

”He needn't do that,” said Katharine. ”It would be the kindest thing in the world not to let him read another magazine or newspaper for six months. I think he is very nice, though, when he lets himself go.”

Ted looked at her a little sadly.

”You seemed to be getting on beastly well, I thought,” he said.

”He is certainly very amusing, and it was nice of you to ask me to meet him,” continued Katharine, innocently. Ted walked to the fire-place, and studied himself silently in the looking-gla.s.s.

”I wish I wasn't such a d.a.m.ned fool,” he burst out savagely. Katharine stood still with amazement.

”Ted!” she cried. ”Ted! What do you mean?”

Ted planted his elbows on the mantel-shelf, and buried his face in his hands.

”Ted!” she said again, with distress in her voice. ”What do you mean, Ted? As if I--oh, Ted! And a man like _that_! You know piles more than he does, old boy, ever so much more. You don't put on any side, that's all; and he does. You mustn't say that any more, Ted; oh, you mustn't!

It hurts.”

”You know you are spoofing me,” he said, in m.u.f.fled tones. ”You know you only say that just to please me. You think I am a fool all the time, only you are a good old brick and pretend not to see it. As if I didn't twig! I ought never to have been born.”

Katharine walked swiftly over to him, and laid her hand on his arm.

She did not reason with herself; she only knew that she wanted to comfort him at any price.

”Ted,” she said, earnestly, ”_I_ am glad you were born.”

He turned round suddenly, and looked at her; and she started nervously at the eagerness of his expression. He had not looked like that when he made love to her in the summer-house.

”Do you mean that, dear?”

”Oh, don't be so serious, Ted! Of course I mean it; of course I am glad you were born. Think how forlorn I should have been without you; it would have been awful if I had been alone.” He looked only half satisfied; and she went on desperately, caring for nothing but to charm away the miserable look from his face. ”Dear Ted, you know what you are to me; you know I don't care a little bit for Monty, or anybody else, either.”

”Do you mean that, Kitty?” he asked again, in a voice that he could not steady. ”Not anybody else, dear?”

Something indefinable, something that made her long for another man's voice to be trembling for love of her, as his was trembling now, seemed to come between them and to strike her dumb. He looked at her searchingly for a moment, then shook off her hand and pushed her away from him. She s.h.i.+vered as the suspicion crossed her mind that he had guessed her thoughts, though she knew quite well that the renewal of her friends.h.i.+p with Paul was unknown to him. She went up to him again, and let him seize her two hands and crush them until she could have cried out with the pain.

”You are the best fellow in the world, Ted,” she said. ”But you mustn't look like that; oh, don't! I am not worth it, Ted; I am not nearly good enough for you, dear,--you know I am not. I am never going to marry any one; I am not the sort to marry; I am hard, and cold, and bitter. Sometimes, I think I shall just work and fight my way to the end. I know I shall never be happy in the way most women are happy.