'Don't I know it! I return to my first question—does she care a hapo'rth?'
Nelly was looking dreamily into the fire.
'You mean—does she care enough to give up her ways and take to yours?'
'Yes, I suppose I do mean that,' he said, with sudden seriousness.
Nelly shook her head, smiling.
'I don't know! But—Cicely's worth a deal of trouble.'
He assented with a mixture of fervour and depression.
'We've known each other since we were boy and girl. That's what makes the difficulty, perhaps. We know each other too well. When she was a child of fourteen, I was already in the Guards, and I used to try and tackle her—because no one else would. Her father was dead. Her mother had no influence with her; and Willy was too lazy. So I tried my hand. And I find myself doing the same thing now. But of course it's fatal—it's fatal!'
Nelly tried to cheer him up, but she was not herself very hopeful. She, perceived too clearly the martinet in him and the rebel in Cicely. If something were suddenly to throw them together, some common interest or emotion, each might find the other's heart in a way past undoing. On the other hand the jarring habit, once set up, has a way of growing worse, and reducing everything else to dust and ashes. Finally she wound up with a timid but emphatic counsel.
'Please—please—don't be sarcastic.'