“Does your head ache, dear Dolly?” asked he, compassionately.
“Slightly; it is seldom quite free of pain. You have chosen a poor guide, Tony, when there is a question of the habits of fine folk. None know so little of their ways as I do. But surely you do not need guidance. Surely you are well capable of understanding them in all their moods.”
With all her attempts to appear calm and composed, her lips shook and her cheeks trembled as she spoke; and Tony, more struck by her looks than her words, passed his arm round her, and said, in a kind and affectionate voice, “I see you are not well, my own dear Dolly; and that I ought not to come here troubling you about my own selfish cares; but I can never help feeling that it's a sister I speak to.”
“Yes, a sister,” said she, in a faint whisper,—“a sister!”
“And that your brother Tony has the right to come to you for counsel and help.”
“So he has,” said she, gulping down something like a sob; “but these days, when my head is weary and tired, and when—as to-day, Tony—I am good for nothing—Tell me,” said she, hastily, “how does your mother bear your going away? Will she let me come and sit with her often? I hope she will.”
“That she will, and be so happy to have you too; and only think, Dolly, Alice Lyle—Mrs. Trafford, I mean—has offered to come and keep her company sometimes. I hope you 'll meet her there; how you 'd like her. Dolly!”
Dolly turned away her head; and the tears, against which she had struggled so long, now burst forth, and slowly fell along her cheek.
“You must not fancy, Dolly, that because Alice is rich and great you will like her less. Heaven knows, if humble fortune could separate us, ours might have done so.”
“My head is splitting, Tony dear. It is one of those sudden attacks of pain. Don't be angry if I say good-bye; there's nothing for it but a dark room, and quiet.”