“That would be very nice of you,” said Conolly; “but you cannot: expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little child to be equally kind and confiding. Lucy is too acute not to have learned long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and helplessness of children.”
“Thats true,” said Elinor, reluctantly. Marian turned away and quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas. After a minute she strolled with him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke.
“Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, left alone with her.
“Yes: we have had a very pleasant evening indeed. We played chess and écarté; and we all agreed to make old times of it. Marmaduke sang for us; and Marian had us nearly in tears with those old ballads of hers.”
“And then I came in and spoiled it all. Eh?”
“Certainly not. Why do you say that?”
“Merely a mischievous impulse to say something true: jealousy, perhaps, because I missed being here earlier. You think, then, that if I had been here, the evening would have been equally pleasant, and Marian equally happy in her singing?”
“Dont you like Marian’s singing?”
“Could you not have refrained from that most indiscreet question?”
“I ought to have. It came out unawares. Do not answer it.”