Dolly made a quick movement. "O yes," she began, "I am very glad."
"But of course, it can't be the same. You have so many belonging to you,—so many friends; and I have nobody except my father."
Had she not Edred too? That thought darted through Dolly's mind with the force and pain of an actual stab. It seemed to take away her breath, and to turn her pale.
"People in London generally have more friends than people in the country," she said.
"Do they? Ah—so Mr. Claughton says—Mr. Mervyn Claughton, I mean," with a half smile. Dorothea hesitated for a second, noting Dolly's faint blush. Then was it Mervyn, not Edred, who might hope to win Dolly? "Poor man!" Dorothea said to herself, thinking of Edred, and there was a little sigh, not wholly on his account. She went on talking quietly, while so thinking: "But I am not in the swing of London society, for my father goes nowhere."
"Doesn't he?"
The indifferent tone hardly called for a response; and a pause followed.
"I wonder whether I may say one thing about—" began Dorothea, and again there came to Dolly the question, which was like a stab—was it something about Edred? But—"about your father," were the next words, and Dolly's strained attention lessened. "We owe him so much. You know, of course, how good he has been—how kind and noble. One can't explain feeling," Dorothea added with a little laugh; "but if I could—Do you know, I almost think there can't be another man like him in the world."
"I am sure he is very glad," said Dolly, feeling her own words and manner to be horribly cold. "And it is nice for them to be together again."
"Yes," Dorothea murmured. "It must be more to me than to you, of course." Then she abruptly changed the subject by asking, "Is the Park far from your house?"