"I must say, Ditto, you read us the most extraordinary variety of stories."
That was Flora's utterance. Meredith, however, sat looking very gravely into the water, which was rolling its little waves along at his feet far below. The sun had got lower while he had been reading; the lights and colours were changing; shadows fell from the hill-tops and began to lie broad on the river, cast from the western shore; but all softened in the haze, which now was getting in a strange way transfused with light; and a few little flecks of cloud were taking on the most delicate hues.
"Mr. Murray," Meredith broke out, "that story is not exaggerated? I mean, the doing of the people in the story is not, is it?"
"Miss Flora thinks so."
"Don't you, Mr. Murray?" said the young lady.
"Let us hear your reasons, please."
"Well, Mr. Murray, surely life is given to us for something besides bare work. We are meant to be happy and enjoy ourselves a little, aren't we?"
"Most certainly."
"Those good men,—I dare say they were good men,—seem to me to have been mistaken."
"You think, for instance, they might have kept some of their New Year's money to buy their wives new dresses?"