A pensive—almost a melancholy—look crossed Miss Trelawny's face.
'The worst of it is, that our moods and Nature's do not always harmonise; sometimes the sunshine has a chilling brightness when we are not exactly attuned to it. One must be really susceptible—in fact, an artist—if one could find happiness in the mere circumstance of living in a beautiful district like ours.'
'I hope you do not undervalue your privileges,' returned Mildred, smiling.
'No, I am never weary of expatiating on them; but all the same, one asks a little more of life.'
'In what way?'
'In every possible way,' arching her brows, with a sort of impatience. 'What do rational human beings generally require?—work—fellowship—possible sympathy.'
'All of which are to be had for the asking. Nay, my dear Miss Trelawny,' as Ethel's slight shrug of the shoulders testified her dissent, 'where human beings are more or less congregated, there can be no lack of these.'
'They may possibly differ in the meaning we attach to our words. I am not speaking of the labour market, which is already glutted.'
'Nor I.'
'The question is,' continued the young philosopher, wearily, 'of what possible use are nine-tenths of the unmarried women? half of them marry to escape from the unbearable routine and vacuum of their lives.'