“Then do try and be more prudent for the future, Norah. You know people always argue that there is no smoke without fire.”
“People aren’t always to be trusted, Colonel Dacre,” she said, with affected formality. “One has heard of reports that were entirely false.”
“In that case, you almost invariably find that it had its origin in some imprudence.”
“Oh!” she answered loftily, “you may put me down for hundreds of those. I never could, would, or should be prudent; it is not in my nature.”
“Then can’t you change your nature, Norah?”
“No; I hate being perfect, and I can’t bear being bored; and if you lecture me any more, Lawrence, I’ll say something spiteful about Lady Gwendolyn: that she paints her cheeks—you know she has a lovely bloom—or dyes her hair—nobody believes in hair nowadays—or anything disagreeable I can think of at the moment; for I want comforting, not scolding, to-night—I do, indeed; and what is the use of a friend if he fails you in your need?”
“My dear Norah, I can assure you I meant to be sympathetic.”
“You ought to be,” she answered, with a dry sob. “I should feel for you if you had lost the only person in the world who really cared for you.”
“You are not quite so unfortunate as that, Norah. You know I have a sincere affection for you, for poor Jack’s sake, and your own as well. The best proof of that is my candor; for if I did not look upon you as a friend, I should not dare to give you good advice.”
“Never mind,” she said, holding out to him the hand with which she had just dashed away her tears. “I couldn’t be angry with you, if I would, for the sake of old times. I hope you will be happy, Lawrence, with all my heart, though your marriage with Lady Gwendolyn will rob me of a friend.”