"I daresay we do," said Christine, drawing nearer the fire. It was autumn now, and she was always a chilly little body.
"Look at those wretched Courtlands! And somehow I don't believe that Grantley's marriage has been altogether successful."
She paused a moment, and there had been a questioning inflection in her voice; but Christine made no comment.
"For myself I can't complain——"
"And you won't get anything out of me, Kate."
"But we do want the young people to—to give us the ideal back again."
"I suppose the old people have always thought the young people were going to do that. And they never do. They grow into old people—and then the men drink, or the women run away, or something."
"No, no," Kate Raymore protested. "I won't believe it, Christine. There's always hope with them, anyhow. They're beginning with the best, anyhow!"
"And when they find it isn't the best?"
"You're—you're positively sacrilegious!"