"And why? It is eloquent."
"But is it true? Is there so much melancholy in life? Are the affections so full of bitterness? For me, I am so happy when with those I love! When I am with my mother, the air seems more fragrant, the skies more blue: it is surely not affection, but the absence of it, that makes us melancholy."
"Perhaps so; but if we had never known affection, we might not miss it: and the brilliant Frenchwoman speaks from memory, while you speak from hope,—memory, which is the ghost of joy: yet surely, even in the indulgence of affection, there is at times a certain melancholy, a certain fear. Have you never felt it, even with—with your mother?"
"Ah, yes! when she suffered, or when I have thought she loved me less than I desired."
"That must have been an idle and vain thought. Your mother! does she resemble you?"
"I wish I could think so. Oh, if you knew her! I have longed so often that you were acquainted with each other! It was she who taught me to sing your songs."
"My dear Mrs. Hare, we may as well throw up our cards," said the keen clear voice of Lord Vargrave: "you have played most admirably, and I know that your last card will be the ace of trumps; still the luck is against us."
"No, no; pray play it out, my lord."
"Quite useless, ma'am," said Sir John, showing two honours. "We have only the trick to make."
"Quite useless," echoed Lumley, tossing down his sovereigns, and rising with a careless yawn.