“Very fine criticism indeed, Kitty.  I wish Booth and Barrett could hear it.”

“I wish they could; but I am tired to death now.  Good night, papa; good night, mamma.  I’ll talk for twenty in the morning.”

“What’s the matter with Kitty, mother?”

“Jack Warner, I expect.”

“Hum!  I don’t think so.”

“Men don’t know everything, Tom.”

“They don’t know anything about women; their best efforts in that line are only guesses at truth.”

“Go to bed, Tom Duffan; you are getting prosy and ridiculous.  Kitty will explain herself in the morning.”

But Kitty did not explain herself, and she daily grew more and more inexplicable.  She began to read:  Max brought the books, and she read them.  She began to practice:  Max liked music, and wanted to sing with her.  She stopped crimping her hair:  Max said it was unnatural and inartistic.  She went to scientific lectures and astronomical lectures and literary societies:  Max took her.

Tom Duffan did not quite like the change, for Tom was of that order of men who love to put their hearts and necks under a pretty woman’s foot.  He had been so long used to Kitty dominant, to Kitty sarcastic, to Kitty willful, to Kitty absolute, that he could not understand the new Kitty.

“I do not think our little girl is quite well, mother,” he said one day, after studying his daughter reading the Endymion without a yawn.

“Tom, if you can’t ‘think’ to better purpose, you had better go on painting.  Kitty is in love.”

“First time I ever saw love make a woman studious and sensible.”

“They are uncommon symptoms; nevertheless, Kitty’s in love.  Poor child!”

“With whom?”

“Max Raymond;” and the mother dropped her eyes upon the ruffle she was pleating for Kitty’s dress, while Tom Duffan accompanied the new-born thought with his favorite melody.

Thus the winter passed quickly and happily away.  Greatly to Kitty’s delight, before its close Jack found the “blonde, sentimental, intellectual friend,” who could appreciate both him and his writings; and the two went to housekeeping in what Kitty called “a large dry-goods box.”  The merry little wedding was the last event of a late spring, and when it was over the summer quarters were an imperative question.

“I really don’t know what to do, mother,” said Tom.  “Kitty vowed she would not go to the Peak this year, and I scarcely know how to get along without it.”

“Oh, Kitty will go.  Max Raymond has quarters at the hotel lower down.”

“Oh, oh!  I’ll tease the little puss.”

“You will do nothing of the kind, Tom, unless you want to go to Cape May or the Branch.  They both imagine their motives undiscovered; but you just let Kitty know that you even suspect them, and she won’t stir a step in your direction.”

Here Kitty, entering the room, stopped the conversation.  She had a pretty lawn suit on, and a Japanese fan in her hand.  “Lawn and fans, Kitty,” said Tom:  “time to leave the city.  Shall we go to the Branch, or Saratoga?”