"I wish I wasn't such a damned 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 muffled 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."