"I am so sorry for dear little Leonore, I can't get her out of my head."
"Well, I'm sorry too." With an effort Val recalled what he had to be sorry for, but that done, he assumed a solemn air that did him credit—and indeed we are wrong in using the word "assumed," since directly he remembered or reflected upon the woes of others, Valentine Purcell's kind heart was touched.
"I'm awfully sorry," he reiterated now, shaking his head.
"It is so sad for her, is it not?"
"Awfully sad; I say, do you think she'd join the hunt?" Suddenly his eyes lit up, and he started to attention. "We do want some more subscribers jolly badly. If Leonore——"
"Not just at present, my dear,—but, yes, certainly, by-and-by, when she has settled down here, and left off her weeds."
"Her what?" he stared.
"Her widow's weeds, dear boy. The poor child must wear them, you know. White collars and cuffs, and that kind of thing. Happily she need not disfigure her sweet face by a frightful cap as I had to do."
"Oh, Lor! Do you mean Leo will have to turn out in a thing like that?"
"My dear, I just said she would not."