"Oh, nothing. I once knew a girl named Ethel, and—Well, I had a faint idea that it would be odd if this should be the one. But there's no such chance."
"Oh, the name Ethel is common enough."
"Well, and didn't you find out any thing about her people?"
"Whose—Ethel's?"
"Your child-angel's people."
"No. What do I care about her people? They might be Jews or Patagonians for all I care."
"Still I should think your interest in her would make you ask."
"Oh no; my interest refers to herself, not to her relatives. Her sister Ethel is certainly a deuced pretty girl, though."
"Sconey, my boy, I'm afraid you're getting demoralized. Why, I remember the time when you regarded the whole female race with a lofty scorn and a profound indifference that was a perpetual rebuke to more inflammable natures. But now what a change! Here you are, with a finely developed eye for female beauty, actually reveling in dreams of child-angels and their sisters. By Jove!"
"Nonsense," said Dacres.