“The ridiculous thing you did,” Mary-in-the-glass was told—“the ridiculous thing you did to make yourself miserable was to go thinking about—about Ireland.”
The mouth of Mary-in-the-glass ominously twitched.
“There you go again. And it is so absolutely forbidden to think about that. Whatever's the use of it?”
Mary-in-the-glass could adduce no reason, and must be prodded.
“Does it do you any good? Does it do them any good, do you suppose, to know that you can never think of them without making yourself unhappy?”
Mary-in-the-glass attempted a weak quibble; was instantly snapped.
“I'm not saying you are never to think of them. Goodness knows what I should do if I did not. It's all right to think of them when you are happy and they can share the happiness with you; but, when you choose to be idiotically miserable, that's the time you are not to go whining anywhere near them—understand? You only make them unhappy and make your troubles worse. Troubles! if you can't see the fun of Mrs. Chater, you must be a wretched sort of person. Her face when the cab brought her back! And trying to feel her heart! And her rage with that little worm of a Mr. Chater! Can't you see the fun of it instead of crying over it?”
Mary-in-the-glass could. The successive recollections induced the prettiest dimples on her face. She was at once forgiven.
Indeed, to snuggle back into her and to merge into her again was just now very desirable to the censorious Mary-outside-the-glass. For, merged in her sentimental and romantic personality, a most delectable line of thought could be pursued—a delectable line, since along this trail was to be encountered that stranger who had caught her in her wild ejection from the cab.
Sinking in a chair, Mary adventured upon it; she was instantly met.