"But would you ask her?" she repeated.
"I am perfectly assured," he replied, quietly, "that if I were to forget myself so far as to do so, Miss Keeley would certainly not come."
"Then you mean to say that it has always been dreadfully wrong of me to come?"
"Really, Katharine, you are very quarrelsome this evening," said Paul, with a forced laugh. "I have repeatedly pointed out to you that a man chooses some of his friends for pleasure, and others for business. I really fail to see why I should be subjected to this minute catechism at your hands."
"Then you chose Marion—for business? It is true, then, what they said! I wish—oh, I wish you had never chosen me—for pleasure!"
The anger had died out of her voice; he could hardly hear what she said; but he made a last attempt to treat the matter lightly.
"I really think, my child, that any comparison between you and your cousin is unnecessary," he began in a conciliating manner.
"I thought so too, until to-day," she replied, piteously.
"But what has happened to-day to put you in this uncomfortable frame of mind?"
"It is what every one is saying about you and Marion,—all those horrid people, and Mr. Heaton, and everybody. I want to know if it is true. Everything is going wrong, everywhere. I wish I were dead! I came to ask you if it is true; I thought I might do that; I thought I knew you well enough. I didn't know you would mind. If you like, I will go away now, and never come and see you any more, or bother you, or let you know that I care for you so awfully. Only, tell me first, Paul, whether it is true or not?"