Basil sighed. "I wish I had the recipe," he said; "try to get it from her. It would be particularly useful just now."
"Are you depressed, dear?" the girl asked.
"Horribly; things seem worse than ever. Oh, Ethel, darling, it is dreadful to say so, but I do not think we shall ever be married!"
"You are not to talk like that, Basil; it is perfectly ridiculous, and I won't have it. Look at me. Am I depressed?"
"No," the man answered, looking wonderingly at her. "You have caught your mother's mood. But the last time we were out together, if you remember, you were as sad as I. We walked about the Luxembourg Gardens for an hour bewailing our lot."
"Yes, and after dinner we were as happy as possible, and made all sorts of plans. We furnished the drawing-room that evening, I think—or was it the dining-room?"
Basil laughed, but there was no mirth in his laughter. "It doesn't matter much," he replied, "but to-night I do not think I could take any interest in the attics of our Castle in Spain. For that's what it is, dearest, at present, and that's what I am sure it will remain."
"I have told you before, Basil, that you are not to talk like that. I simply won't have it. Entend-tu? Has anything happened to make you feel more despondent than usual?"
"Well, not exactly, and yet in a way there has, though it is only a little thing."
"Tell me, dear."