"Ted? Why, no, of course not. What an awful reflection! Ted isn't a bit poetic, not a little bit; and he would scoff like anything. I have never talked about the things I really like to anybody before; not even to daddy, much."
This was a little dangerous, and the tomboy daughter of the parson was not the kind of personality that was likely to make the danger fascinating. And Paul's first impulse was to wince at the unstudied frankness of her remark; but four days of seclusion had been exceedingly chastening, and the flattery that underlay her words was not unpleasing to him.
"Then what made you suppose I cared about poetry, eh?" he asked deliberately.
"Why," said Katharine, staring at him, "you began it, don't you remember? I thought you wanted me to tell you what I thought."
"Yes, yes; I am aware of that. But don't you think we have talked enough about poetry for one day?" said Paul, half closing his eyes. He was already regretting his stupidity in expecting her to understand him.
"How awfully funny you are! First you say—"
"Yes," said Paul, as patiently as he could, "I know. Don't let us say any more about it. Supposing you were to talk to me now as you would talk to young Morton, for instance!"
Katharine shook her head doubtfully.
"I don't think I could. You're not like Ted; you don't like the same sort of things. You're not like me, either."
Paul smiled grimly.