“Extremely, George; but of late there has been a subdued sadness—a pained look in her pensive eyes, that troubles me a good deal, for it is bad.”
“Perhaps she has some trouble on her mind, dear. You should try and comfort her.”
“I could not comfort her, my dear. The comfort must come from other lips than mine. Hers is a mental grief.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say that she is in love?” said George Canninge, laughing.
“I mean to say that the poor girl is suffering cruelly from a feeling of neglect, and it grieves me very, very much.”
“Send the swain for whom she sighs to comfort her, my dear mamma.”
“That is what I am seeking to do, George,” said the lady, looking at him meaningly. “Don’t you think it is time you threw off this indifference, and ceased to trifle? You are giving pain to a true, sweet woman.”
“I! I giving pain to a true, sweet woman? Absurd! My dearest mother, do you for a moment suppose that I ever thought seriously about Beatrice Lambent?”
“It has been one of my cherished hopes that you did, George, and I know that she feels your cool indifference most keenly.”
“Nonsense, dear!” he cried, laughing; “why, what crotchet is this that you have got into your head?”