And so they talked about themselves. He would have talked of anything on earth to please her then. Talking of themselves, of course, implied talking nonsense,—affectionate, sympathetic nonsense, but still nonsense; and so, for a while, they strolled on together, and were as tenderly foolish and disconnected as two people could possibly be.
But, in spite of her resolution to avoid the subject, Dolly could not help drifting back to Ralph Gowan. “Griffith,” she said, plaintively, “you are very jealous of him.”
“I know that,” he answered.
“But don't you know,” in desperate appeal, “that there is n't the slightest need for you to be jealous of anybody?”
“I know,” he returned, dejectedly, “that I am a very wretched fellow sometimes.”
“Oh, dear!” sighed Dolly.
“I know,” he went on, “that seven years is a long probation, and that the prospect of another seven, or another two, for the matter of that, would drive me mad. I know I am growing envious and distrustful; I know that there are times when I hate that fellow so savagely that I am ashamed of myself. Dolly, what has he ever done that he should saunter on the sunny side, clad in purple and fine linen all his life? The money he throws away in a year would furnish the house at Putney.”
“Oh, dear!” burst forth Dolly. “You are going wrong. It is all because I am not there to take care of you, too. Those are not the sentiments of Vagabondia, Grif.”
“No,” dryly; “they are of the earth, earthy.”
Dolly shook her head dolefully.