"The female of the species is more deadly ...", he started.
"Stop quoting Kipling, Trevor," interrupted the lady with whom he was sharing breakfast. Her voice was soft and scolding, motherly almost. He stopped, and nothing more was said, but his attitude towards her had been moved, shifted, deflected you might say from a path that could only end in love to one that must end in loathing. It would be some time coming, but that was it. Trevor could never love Katherine now, and the fact of his impending wedding to her and his abiding cowardice promised a tragedy.