"Not tired, Mrs. Dennison, or, of course, you would forsake the society that wearies you."
She shook her head patronizingly and smiled, oh, such a sweet, sad smile—she must have practised for days to attain such perfection in it.
"How innocent you are!" she said; "I envy you, dear, kind Miss Hyde!"
How I longed to fling back her affectionate epithets with the scorn they deserved; but, of course, that was impossible, so I made a movement to go, trembling all over with repressed indignation.
"You are running away from me as usual," she said, reproachfully; "I never get a moment now of your honest, sensible conversation."
"I trust you do not suffer much from the loss," was all the answer I made.
I know I am not very wise; I do not deny having my share of little vanities; but Mrs. Dennison had not found the road which led to them.
"I do indeed," she replied; "but I see you will not believe me."
"You have not an exalted opinion of my courtesy, Mrs. Dennison."
"Ah, now you are going to be sarcastic—my dear Miss Hyde, that is not in your way."