Having derived no stable satisfaction from the advice that she had already received, Lily began to consider where she could seek for more advice, and involved herself further and further in the endeavour to see truth through the vision of others.
Dorothy Hardinge was crudely positive.
"I wouldn't have him, Lily, if you aren't in love with him. There are sure to be heaps of other men who'll want to marry you. They even want to marry me, and you're a million times prettier than I am, and heaps of men don't care a bit about games. I mean whether one's good at them or not. Of course that's one thing in Mr. Aubray's favour, I suppose—as he's frightfully clever and rather old and lives in London, he wouldn't mind about your being rather bad at games, would he?"
"He doesn't mind at all; he's told me so."
"That's all right then. I suppose you wouldn't tell me what he said when he proposed? I can't imagine him doing it, somehow." Dorothy giggled. "I bet he was very grand and formal."
Lily raised her chin slightly.
She had no desire to hear Dorothy's wit, the elementary form of which was well known to her, expend itself in this direction.
But it was never difficult to change the trend of Dorothy's thoughts.
"You've had a great many people in love with you, haven't you, Dorothy?"
"We hardly ever see a new man down here," said Dorothy discontentedly. "But I must say, I generally have somebody or other to make things amusing—one meets them at tennis, and so on. But of course you know, they don't all propose, or anything like that."