Lily knew very well that Miss Dickenson was not really sure of anything of the kind, and would have been both astonished and indignant had her self-indictment been endorsed by her patient.
"I mean, do tell me really. I should hate it if you thought that I stayed away after dinner when I ought to be cheering you up. But you would tell me if you did, wouldn't you?"
"I'm very glad that you should keep my husband company at dinner when he's by himself, and of course he always comes up to me after dinner when he's in, so naturally——"
"Oh, good gracious! You don't suppose I meant that I wanted to stay with you while he's here? I wouldn't do such an appalling thing for the world; why, it's an appalling idea. You didn't think that was what I meant, did you? I mean, I'd rather be told if you did, of course, but you didn't, did you? Do say if you did, though."
For all the incessant string of tiresome appeals on Miss Dickenson's lips, her roving eyes betrayed the utter lack of any purpose or meaning behind her words.
"Don't look like that! Why do you look like that?"
"Like what?" said Lily, crossly and childishly, although experience had taught her that the question never provoked a reasonable answer.
"Like that. Sort of appalled, aren't you? But I'd always rather know things—that's why I ask."
"Like Rosa Dartle." The words seemed to drop, in spite of deadly weariness, from Lily.
"Like who?"