“Yes?”
Dosia had come into the nursery, where Lois sat sewing, a canary overhead singing with shrill velocity in a stream of sunshine. Her look gave no invitation to Dosia. She did not want to talk; she was busy, as ever, with—no matter what she was doing—the self-fullness of her thoughts, which chained her like a slave. She had been longing to move into the other house, where, amid new surroundings, she could escape from the familiar walls and outlook that each brought its suggestion of pain, with the wearying iterancy of habit, no matter how she wanted to be happy.
Dosia dropped half-unwillingly into a chair as she said:
“I’ve something to tell you, Lois.”
“Well?”
“I’m engaged to George Sutton.”
“Dosia!”
Lois’ work fell from her hand as she stared at the girl.
“I’m sure I don’t see that you need be surprised,” said Dosia. She looked pale and expressionless, as one who did not expect either sympathy or interest.
“No, I suppose not,” said Lois. “Of course, I know he has been paying you a great deal of attention, but then, he has paid other girls almost as much.” She stopped, with her eyes fixed on Dosia. In a sense, she had rather hoped for this; the marriage would certainly solve many difficulties, and be a very fine thing for Dosia—if Dosia could——! Yet now the idea revolted Lois. To marry a man without loving him would have been to her, at any time or under any stress, a physical impossibility. Marriage for friendship or suitability or support was outside her scheme of comprehension. She spoke now with cold disapproval: