"You haven't been over much, lately," observed Paul presently.
Ted glanced at him again, but was disarmed by his tone of friendliness.
"No," he said. "At least, I was over once or twice last week, but I never got a look in with Kitty. I mean," he added hastily, "she was out, or something."
"Ah!" said Paul indifferently; "that was unfortunate."
"It was a howling nuisance," said Ted, his troubled look returning. "The truth is," he went on, feeling a desire for a confidant to be stronger than his distrust of Paul, "there's something I've been trying to tell Kit for a whole week, and for the life of me I can't get it out."
"Going to make a fool of himself at the very start," thought Paul.
"You see," continued Ted with an effort, "she has been playing up so, lately."
"Your mother?" questioned Paul.
Ted nodded.
"And now she's got me a confounded berth in some place in the city,—candles, or grocery, or something beastly. It's the poorest thing I ever heard. And I've got to start on Thursday, so I must leave home to-morrow. And Kitty doesn't know; that's the devil, you see."