The words were spoken so simply that it seemed difficult to suspect the speaker of a second intention. Miss Graham, however, shot at her a sudden doubting glance. Her tone became harder.
"I trust, for both our sakes, that our dreams do not run on the same lines. I have always dreamed of a home; of a harbour at last; of peace at the end; of a time when I shall be able to take my seat among the best, with a mind at ease. It may sound odd, but I have always looked forward to making a good marriage."
"I should think, miss, that you might have done that over and over again."
"I might, but I haven't. But lately I have thought that I might. I am sick of the stage, sick to death!"
She gave a little passionate gesture. In her voice there was a ring of sincerity.
"I shouldn't have thought, miss, that you would ever have been sick of the stage."
"You wouldn't have thought! What do you know of it? You!" She cast a look at Lizzie which was as scornful as her words. Then glanced at the empty rust-worn grate. Then again met Lizzie face to face. "I will be as frank with you as I would ask you to be frank with me. I have dreamed--I use the word advisedly!--I say that I have dreamed of being Countess of Bermondsey."
"Countess of Bermondsey! I'd like to lay, miss, that you could be anything you please!"
Miss Graham's lips were drawn close together.
"Are you laughing at me?"