"I suppose he does, but the poor man is so ill. It's a cruel world, dear—but a beautiful one, too!"
"Then, didn't you go to see the Tierney man?" asked Camille, more interested in that tragedy than the other.
"Yes, we did. He has every comfort, and we secured him the best of counsel. We are sure he will be acquitted."
Camille winked at the fire, a smile on her lips. That "we" tickled her. She glanced around at Joyce, who lay dreamily gazing into the blaze, her eyes and thoughts far away. She broke into a little laugh which attracted the dreamer's attention, and as the latter turned her head surprisedly, she said.
"Do you realize how funny that 'we' and 'our' sound, Joycie dear? Six months ago you thought little enough of George Dalton, and now he is in everything you do."
"Well, it's his business to be, child. Six months ago I did not understand nor appreciate him—now, I do."
Camille gave a grunt.
"We don't see anything of you at all, any more," she flung out, almost spitefully.
"I have been very busy, sweetheart. Did you eat pickled peppers for supper? I wouldn't. They spoil your—complexion."
Camille had to laugh at the tone of this, and at the other's merry eyes.