"I—I wish you would explain," she went on.
"Oh, that's all right, isn't it?" said Ted vaguely.
"It isn't all right; you know it isn't," she cried. "What makes you so strange to me? You've never looked like that before. Is it I who have changed you so, Ted?"
"Oh, it's nothing," he said. "You've hit me up rather, that's all. Don't bother about me. Did you want me for anything particular?"
She looked in vain for any signs of relenting in his manner; but he sat on the edge of the sofa, and played with his walking-stick, and cleared his throat at intervals. In spite of the changed conditions of their attitude towards one another, she felt that she was expected, as usual, to take the initiative.
"I wanted to tell you all about it, to explain," she faltered. "I thought you would help me."
"If it's all the same to you, I would rather not hear," said Ted, with unexpected promptitude. "I know as much about it as I care to know, thanks. He wrote to me this morning, too."
"He wrote to you? Paul?"
"Wilton, yes," he replied, shortly, and glanced at her again. His under lip was twitching, as it always did when he was hurt or embarrassed.
"What for?" she asked, wonderingly.