"You are out of prison?"
"Yes, till I do something bad again. But you?—how is it all?"
"Oh, it is," said Esther, smiling brightly as she moved toward the wicker chair, and seated herself again, "that everything is as usual: my father is gone to see the sick; Lyddy is gone in deep despondency to buy the grocery; and I am sitting here, with some vanity in me, needing to be scolded."
Felix had seated himself on a chair that happened to be near her, at the corner of the table. He looked at her still with questioning eyes—he grave, she mischievously smiling.
"Are you come back to live here then?"
"Yes."
"You are not going to be married to Harold Transome, or to be rich?"
"No." Something made Esther take up her work again, and begin to stitch. The smiles were dying into a tremor.
"Why?" said Felix, in rather a low tone, leaning his elbow on the table, and resting his head on his hand while he looked at her.
"I did not wish to marry him, or to be rich."