Lady Jones always talked of Grannie as her ladyship.
"I hope he has got over the loss of his daughter."
"In six months!" cried Vera. "How could you suppose such a thing!"
"Men's grief never lasts very long, not even a widower's," said Lady Jones; "and I've always noticed that the more a widower wants to throw himself into his wife's grave at the funeral, the sooner he begins to think about marrying again. And from the fuss Signor Provana made over his daughter, I should have expected six months would have been long enough to make him forget her."
"I don't think he is that kind of man," Vera said gravely, trying to move away; but Lady Jones detained her.
"What's your hurry?" she asked. "You must find it awfully dull walking alone every afternoon."
"I rather like being alone—if I can have a book," Vera answered, glancing at the little volume under her arm, and thinking how far the charm of solitude surpassed Lady Jones's conversation.
"Well, I'll walk a little way with you," said that lady, with exasperating patronage. "I don't like to see a young girl leading such a dull life. Why don't you never come down to the drawing-room of an evening?"
"I don't want to leave Grannie."
"You'd find us quite gay after your solitary salong. Two bridge tables, and besique, and sometimes even games, How, when, and where, and Consequences."