'No, no, no!' cried Primrose. 'You are not a bit like her, not a bit. I do not mean that; but I mean, dear,—aren't you just living for the moment's pleasure, and forgetting something better?'
'Forgetting a good many things, you think.'
'Aren't you, Hazel? And I cannot bear to have you.'
'What am I to remember?' said the girl in a sort of dreamy tone, with her thoughts on the wing.
'Remember that you have something to do with your life and with yourself, Hazel; something truly noble and happy and worth while. I am sure dancing-parties are not enough to live on. Are they?'
'No.'
Perhaps Primrose thought she had said enough; perhaps she did not know how to choose further words to hit the girl's mood. She was patiently silent. Suddenly Hazel sat up and turned towards her.
'You poor little Prim!' she said, laying gentle hands on her shoulders and a kiss on each cheek,—'whirled off from your green leaves on a midnight chase after witches! This was one of Mr. Rollo's few mistakes: he should have come alone.'
'Should he?' said Primrose, wondering. 'But it wouldn't have been so good for you, dear, would it?'
'Prim'—somewhat irrelevantly—'did you ever have a thorn in your finger?'