"It is so monotonous," she says, wearily. "One goes to bed only to get up again; and one gets up with no expectation of change except to go to bed again."
"'One dem'd horrid grind,'" quotes Mr. Branscombe, in a low tone. He is filled with honest pity for her. Instinctively he puts out his hand, and takes one of hers, and presses it ever so gently. "Poor child!" he says, from his heart. To him, with her baby face, and her odd impulsive manner, that changes and varies with every thought, she is merely a child.
She looks at him, and shakes her head.
"You must not think me unhappy," she says, hastily. "I am not that. I was twice as unhappy before I came here. Everybody now is so kind to me,—Clarissa, and the Redmonds, and"—with another glance from under the long lashes—"you, and——Mr. Hastings."
"The curate?" says Dorian, in such a tone as compels Miss Broughton, on the instant, to believe that he and Mr. Hastings are at deadly feud.
"I thought you knew him," she says, with some hesitation.
"I have met him," returns he, "generally, I think, on tennis-grounds. He can run about a good deal, but it seems a pity to waste a good bat on him. He never hits a ball by any chance, and as for serving—I don't think I swore for six months until the last time I met him."
"Why, what did he do?"
"More than I can recall in a hurry. For one thing, he drank more tea than any four people together that ever I knew."
"Was that all? I see no reason why any one should be ashamed of liking tea."