“He must have been cheated into it,” she cried. “Paul—Paul! so fastidious as he is, how could he ever, ever, have thought of a girl like that?”
But Lady Markham, anxious to keep the balance even, shook her head.
“My dearest, you don’t know much about men. I can’t tell why it is. They choose those whom you would think they would fly from, and fly from those whom you would think—I don’t know, Alice, perhaps they get tired of the kind of women like you and me, whom they see every day.”
“Mamma!”
“I have thought so often, dear. We don’t feel so, but men—they get tired of one kind of woman. They think they will try something different. It has always been a mystery. And you must not think this was a—was not a good girl. I saw nothing wrong about her. Perhaps a little more—— no, I don’t know what to say. She was not saucy, or bold, or—— Perhaps it was only that she was not a lady,” Lady Markham said with a sigh.
“But that Paul should care for any one who was not a lady,” Alice said, clasping her hands together with mingled despair and impatience; and then she cried suddenly, “Poor little Dolly!”
“Dolly!” said Lady Markham. Nothing could exceed her surprise. The air of grieved doubt and hesitation which had been in her face while they discussed Janet gave way to lively astonishment and displeasure. “What do you mean by Dolly?” she said.
Then Alice faltered forth an ashamed confession—that she thought—that she had supposed—that she did not know anything about it—did not believe there was anything in it—but only, Dolly——
Nothing was to be made of this hesitating speech.
“Dolly,” said Lady Markham, drawing herself up, “is a dear little girl. I am very fond of her. In her proper place she is charming; but my dear Alice, Dolly is scarcely more suitable for Paul, in his position. Ah!——”