Dorothy tossed her head and coloured.
“It is not a question of consolation,” she said; “it is a question of Ernest’s happiness in life.”
“Don’t alarm yourself, Dorothy; people’s happiness is not so easily affected. He will forget all about her in a year.”
“I think that men always talk of each other like that, Reginald,” said Dorothy, resting her head upon her hands, and looking straight at the old gentleman. “Each of you likes to think that he has a monopoly of feeling, and that the rest of his kind are as shallow as a milk-pan. And yet it was only last night that you were talking to me about my mother. You told me, you remember, that life had been a worthless thing to you since she was torn from you, which no success had been able to render pleasant. You said more: you said that you ho
