Dolly avoided the saloon where the rest of the family were, and betook herself to her own room; to consider and to pray over her difficulties, and also to get rid of a few tears and bring her face into its usual cheerful order. When at last she went down, she found her mother alone, but her father almost immediately joined them. The windows were open towards the sea, the warm, delicious air stole in caressingly, the scent of roses and orange blossoms and carnations filled the house and seemed to fill the world; moonlight trembled on the leaves of the fig-tree, and sent lines of silver light into the room. The lamp was lowered and Mrs. Copley sat doing nothing, in a position of satisfied enjoyment by the window.
As Dolly came in by one door, Mr. Copley entered by another, and flung himself down on a chair; his action speaking neither enjoyment nor satisfaction.
"Well!" said he. "How much longer do you think you can stand this sort of thing?"
"What sort of thing, father?"
"Do you sit in the dark usually?"
"Come here, father," said Dolly, "come to the window and see the moonshine on the sea. Do you call that dark?"
"Your father never cared for moonshine, Dolly," said Mrs. Copley.
"No, that's true," said Mr. Copley with a short laugh. "Haven't you got almost enough of it?"
"Of moonshine, father?"
"Yes—on the bay of Sorrento. It's a lazy place."