While sorrow’s memory is sorrow still!
—Byron (Doge of Venice).
“Eh?” said the old man.
He fixed his gaze once more upon his daughter, and stared at her for a moment as if her comely presence were but some freakish play of his own senses.
“Father?”
The knotted wrinkles became softened into an unwilling smile.
“I spoke aloud, didn’t I?” said she. “It must be an inherited trick! I was thinking of David. He never thought more of marriage?”
“Marriage!”
“Will he never marry, father?”
“David, marry! Oh, pooh! David, wise man, has consecrated his youth to his pursuit. Pity, though, he did not choose a more satisfactory one!”