Mrs. Douce's dusty face hardened and dried till it became a very desert of physiognomy. "Well," she said, "you are not a boy, and I—well, I am old enough, I suppose," with a catch of the breath, "to be your mother. So we may as well speak plainly. You see that Natalia is deeply interested in you; you consented for her sake to give up going to the front; and now you coolly abandon her. Not content with that, you begin to taunt her with her melancholy. I little expected this, Mr. Barrington. I little expected it."
"Oh, you're unjust!" said Zadoc S.
"At least, you'll admit you've wounded her feelings and ought to apologize," was the rejoinder.
"Perhaps so," he confessed, feeling sorry for Natalia.
"Go and see her," urged his landlady, gently, though still with something of the desert atmosphere in her voice. "Speak to her about it."
"I will."
"But, remember there's only one thing can make your conduct consistent and restore her happiness."
"You mean," said Barrington, exploring the dent in his chin with his forefinger—"you mean, propose?" Then, as if this were quite out of the question, he shook his head vigorously, smiling. "Of course not that; but I don't see what else you can mean."
"Nothing else," said the voice of the desert.
"It's impossible," he rejoined, quietly.