"Yes, you did, and they never shone so beautifully."
"Well, I flatter myself I was able to make myself useful."
"Those were and will always be the dear old days of my life."
"And how pretty you looked," said Philip, "with a white apron on, and your sleeves tucked up, showing your lovely arms."
"Ah!" said Dora, "and do you also remember how you were once turned out of the kitchen for kissing the cook? You were sorry when I got a new servant."
"Upon my word, I believe I was."
"Ah!" exclaimed Dora, "you will never picnic like that again, you will never have such lovely times. My dear Philip, the very rich people must lead very dull lives. We look for happiness far ahead of us, when often we have it close at hand. The poet is right: 'Paradise is cheap enough, it's only the hells we make for ourselves that are expensive.' We are as rich now as we should ever wish to be. And, let me tell you that, if ever we get really rich (that will be through your fault), I shall find my consolation in the constant recollection of all the pleasures I enjoyed when I was poor—as the ear remains for ever under the charm of some sweet old melody that once struck it. I could go on for ever on this theme. Now, do you know the holiday of my life that I shall never forget?"
"Our trip to Paris with ten pounds in our pockets," replied Philip.
"That's not fair; you guess too quickly. Well, didn't we do it after all? We saw everything—the museums, the theatres, the gardens, and when we arrived home"—
"We had to borrow one-and-six from the servant to pay the cab fare from Charing Cross."