"I don't know that there's any harm in that," said Beatrice, demurely. "If you both liked each other there would be no harm in that—if that were all."
"Wouldn't there?" said Mary, in a low tone of bantering satire; "that is so kind, Trichy, coming from you—from one of the family, you know."
"You are well aware, Mary, that if I could have my wishes—"
"Yes: I am well aware what a paragon of goodness you are. If you could have your way I should be admitted into heaven again; shouldn't I? Only with this proviso, that if a stray angel should ever whisper to me with bated breath, mistaking me, perchance, for one of his own class, I should be bound to close my ears to his whispering, and remind him humbly that I was only a poor mortal. You would trust me so far, wouldn't you, Trichy?"
"I would trust you in any way, Mary. But I think you are unkind in saying such things to me."
"Into whatever heaven I am admitted, I will go only on this understanding: that I am to be as good an angel as any of those around me."
"But, Mary dear, why do you say this to me?"
"Because—because—because—ah me! Why, indeed, but because I have no one else to say it to. Certainly not because you have deserved it."
"It seems as though you were finding fault with me."
"And so I am; how can I do other than find fault? How can I help being sore? Trichy, you hardly realise my position; you hardly see how I am treated; how I am forced to allow myself to be treated without a sign of complaint. You don't see it all. If you did, you would not wonder that I should be sore."