"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.