‘It is a wicked song,’ I said. ‘But I meant——it only represents an unbelieving, hopeless mood.’
‘You wrote it, then!’ she said, giving me—as it seemed, involuntarily—a look of reproach.
‘Yes, I did; but—’
‘Then I think you are very horrid,’ said Clara, interrupting.
‘Charley!’ I said, ‘you must not leave your sister to think so badly of me! You know why I wrote it—and what I meant.’
‘I wish I had written it myself,’ he returned. ‘I think it splendid. Anybody might envy you that song.’
‘But you know I didn’t mean it for a true one.’
‘Who knows whether it is true or false?’
‘I know,’ said Mary: ‘I know it is false.’
‘And I hope it,’ I adjoined.