“Well, it is very serious, Dodo,” said Celia, becoming more impressive. “How will you live? and you will go away among queer people. And I shall never see you—and you won’t mind about little Arthur—and I thought you always would—”
Celia’s rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth were agitated.
“Dear Celia,” said Dorothea, with tender gravity, “if you don’t ever see me, it will not be my fault.”
“Yes, it will,” said Celia, with the same touching distortion of her small features. “How can I come to you or have you with me when James can’t bear it?—that is because he thinks it is not right—he thinks you are so wrong, Dodo. But you always were wrong: only I can’t help loving you. And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?”
“I am going to London,” said Dorothea.
“How can you always live in a street? And you will be so poor. I could give you half my things, only how can I, when I never see you?”
“Bless you, Kitty,” said Dorothea, with gentle warmth. “Take comfort: perhaps James will forgive me some time.”
“But it would be much better if you would not be married,” said Celia, drying her eyes, and returning to her argument; “then there would be nothing uncomfortable. And you would not do what nobody thought you could do. James always said you ought to be a queen; but this is not at all being like a queen. You know what mistakes you have always been making, Dodo, and this is another. Nobody thinks Mr. Ladislaw a proper husband for you. And you said you would never be married again.”
“It is quite true that I might be a wiser person, Celia,” said Dorothea, “and that I might have done something better, if I had been better. But this is what I am going to do. I have promised to marry Mr. Ladislaw; and I am going to marry him.”
The tone in which Dorothea said this was a note that Celia had long learned to recognize. She was silent a few moments, and then said, as if she had dismissed all contest, “Is he very fond of you, Dodo?”