"So am I."
"Yes, but you don't look it. What are you thinking of?"
She turned, and they walked together towards the house.
"I was thinking—it's quite cool, now, Horace—of what you said—about that friend of yours."
"Lucy! Was I rude? Did I make you unhappy?"
"Not you. Don't you see that it's just because I'm happy that I want to be kind to him?"
"Just like your sweetness. But, dear child, you can't be kind to everybody. It really doesn't do."
She said no more; she had certainly something else to think about.
That was on a Tuesday, a hot afternoon in July, eighteen ninety-one.