“That is not as I have read the history of the world from the days of Queen Dido of Carthage down to the days of Queen Diana of Poictiers,” said Dick.
“And you call yourself an Irishman!” she cried, with affected scorn.
“As seldom as possible,” he said. “Only when ’tis needful for me to make an excuse for an indiscretion. I do not feel the need to call myself one to-day.”
“I have always paid you the compliment of thinking of you as very human,” she said.
“And now you have proved the value of your judgment,” said he.
She took a step toward the door, still keeping her eyes upon his face.
“Human?” she said sadly. “Human, and yet you drive me from your presence like this? That is where you err.”
“To err is human,” said he.
She was back again in a flash.
“Oh, Dick, are you not a fool?” she cried. “Why will you continue troubling yourself about a girl who has passed away from you—who treated you with indifference—when there are others within reach who would make your fortune—who would spend all their time thinking—thinking—thinking how to make you happy—and who would succeed, too? Do you prefer a dream of love to the reality, Dick?”