"But, my dear, what an odd fancy! Are you going to sing there by yourself?" her mother inquired.
"Yes!" said Dorothy.
"Do you think she is well?" asked Mrs. Tracy, confidentially, with some anxiety.
"Perfectly well. It is the repressed life she is leading," Mrs. North answered. "But we must make the best of it. This is as good a place as any for the next three months."
But again this skilful directress was forced to abandon the "good place." Early in March, when the almond-trees were in bloom, Dorothy, coming in from the garden, announced, "I hate Belmonte! Let us go away, mamma—anywhere. Let us start to-morrow."
"We took you to Cannes, and you did not wish to stay. We shall be leaving Belmonte in any case in June; that isn't long to wait."
"You like Paris; will you go to Paris?" the girl went on.
"What can you do in Paris more than you do here?"
"I love the streets, they are so bright—so many people. Oh, mamma, if you could only know how dull I am!" And sinking down on the rug, Dorothy laid her face on the sofa-cushion at her mother's side.
Mrs. Tracy coming in and finding her thus, bent and felt her pulse.