"Well?" Katherine rose and gazed at him with the austerity of an inquisitor. Ted gave an uneasy laugh.
"I've been thinking that you and I between us could found a school of our own this year. I've got the eccentricity, and you've got the cheek. We should build ourselves an everlasting name."
"Do be serious; I shall lose my temper in another minute. Is it the wretched money you're thinking of?"
"No, it isn't the money altogether." He got up and walked to his easel.
"Then, oh Ted, you know that Paris—Paris in May—must be simply divine!"
"Why don't you go yourself?"
"No, no; that's not the same thing at all. I don't want to go; besides, I can't. I haven't the time."
"Well, to tell you the truth, Kathy, no more can I. I haven't the time either." He took up his palette and brushes and began carefully touching up the canvas before him.
"Oh—h!" She stared at him for a minute in silence. Ted looked up suddenly; their eyes met, and he set his face like a flint.
"Kathy," he said, slowly, "I've behaved in the most ungrateful and abominable manner. I should like to go to Paris very much, and I—I think I'll start next week."