"Do you mean that, Kitty?" he asked again, in a voice that he could not steady. "Not anybody else, dear?"
Something indefinable, something that made her long for another man's voice to be trembling for love of her, as his was trembling now, seemed to come between them and to strike her dumb. He looked at her searchingly for a moment, then shook off her hand and pushed her away from him. She shivered as the suspicion crossed her mind that he had guessed her thoughts, though she knew quite well that the renewal of her friendship with Paul was unknown to him. She went up to him again, and let him seize her two hands and crush them until she could have cried out with the pain.
"You are the best fellow in the world, Ted," she said. "But you mustn't look like that; oh, don't! I am not worth it, Ted; I am not nearly good enough for you, dear,—you know I am not. I am never going to marry any one; I am not the sort to marry; I am hard, and cold, and bitter. Sometimes, I think I shall just work and fight my way to the end. I know I shall never be happy in the way most women are happy. But I will be your chum, and stick to you always, Ted. May I?"
"Oh, shut up!" said Ted, almost in a whisper; and the tears sprang to her eyes. She stood on tiptoe, and impetuously kissed the only place on his cheek she could reach. At the moment, it seemed the only right and proper thing to be done.
"I couldn't help it. I had to; and I don't care," she said, defiantly. And Ted wrung her hands again, and let them go.
"I suppose none of it is your fault, Kit, but—"
There was a pause, and Katharine avoided his eyes, for the first time in her life.
"It's time to go," she said. "Will you see me home?"
She fetched him his hat and coat, and Ted gave himself a shake.
"He didn't take cream, after all," he said, with a poor attempt at a laugh.