Edred made no answer. Dorothea was hurrying forward, under the strength of her own feelings.
"You have known her so many years, and I only two days,—but to think of accusing Dolly of mere prettiness! You can't know Dolly really. You can't have seen her in her home, with her father and mother and her sisters. And I fancied that you—"
Dorothea paused, and Edred's usually impassive face was aglow. "Thanks," he said abruptly. "Yes, I—I think I do know her. Forget what I said just now," and his voice showed agitation. "Forget everything, except that she—that no one in the world can ever be to me what Dolly is."
"I thought so," murmured Dorothea. "But why—?"
"Why do I not seek her? What is the use? Cannot you see for yourself. Have I a grain of hope to work upon?"
Dorothea could not say that he had. She could only say,—"If I were a man, I would not give in so easily."
"If you were a man, I suppose you would do as a man does," he observed drily. "I don't know what has made me say so much to you, Miss Tracy. Pray consider it to be strictly in confidence—and pray forget the whole."
"I shall not forget; and I shall not repeat it," said Dorothea. "But I still think that if I were you, I would try to win her."
Both Dorothea and Edred were too deeply interested in their subject to pay much attention to what went on around. Edred's eyes were bent downward, and Dorothea's were occupied in studying him. They were skating round a tiny islet which lay at one end of the pond, carelessly keeping to the left of the narrow ice-belt, and calmly oblivious of the fact that other people might choose to round the islet from the opposite direction.
"Hallo!" A warning shout from Mervyn recalled their wandering minds to the present. But the shout came too late. Mervyn and Dolly, skimming lightly one way, met Edred and Dorothea in full career. The four went down together, and Dolly was underneath.