"What on earth should you want to talk about?"
Dorothea laughed. She could not help it. "Why, father,—everything," she said. "The books I read, and the work I do, and the people I see. Is there any harm in talking?"
"Waste of time, my dear."
"But kind and pleasant words are not waste of time, are they? Words that make other people happy."
The Colonel had a marked objection to any remark which savoured ever so slightly of moralising. It was almost as bad as a Curate, in his estimation.
"Where can that book be?" he muttered.
Dorothea could only look upon the matter as settled. She gave one sigh, wondered what Mrs. Effingham would think, hoped they might some day meet again coming out of church, so that she could explain, and then cheerily set herself to find the missing volume.
"What is the name, father? Who is it by?" she asked, smiling.
The Colonel gave her a look. He had not expected this.
"Can't remember the name," he said. "It is by—by—bother my memory! Half-bound, with red edges."