"But, Doris, you—you love Earle?" he said, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I love Earle. It is a thousand pities, though, that he has not a ready-made fortune and position—it would save you so much trouble."
"My dear Doris, there can be no trouble for me where you are concerned; you know how anxious I am that you should be happy. You will be happy with Earle?"
"I am one of those singularly fortunate people, papa, who are happy anywhere," she replied. Then, seeing a very discontented expression on his face, she hastened to add: "Remember how often you have called me a true Studleigh, papa. I find it more in my nature to laugh than to sentimentalize; indeed, under pain of instant execution, I fear that I should not, could not grow sentimental. At the same time believe me no one could be more grateful than I am to you about Earle."
And with that the earl was forced to be content. She sat down to the piano shortly afterward, and he heard the gay voice singing of love and flowers. He looked at her—the same puzzle came to him.
"Has she any heart?" he asked himself.
That was a question which no one yet had been able to answer.
"Earle," said Lady Doris, as they sat together in the morning-room, "do not read any more to me. I always tell you that reading poetry aloud to me is a waste of time and of talent. I want you to talk."
The next moment he had closed the book, and was sitting on the little ottoman at her feet.
"I am only too delighted," he said. "It is not often that my beautiful queen wishes to talk to me."