"I do not know," said Dolly; but her face clouded over and lost the brightness which had been in it a moment before.
"I see you would rather return," said her visitor. "Perhaps you have not been long enough here to feel at home with us?"
"I have been here for several years," said Dolly. "Ever since I was fifteen years old."
"That is long enough to make friends."
"I have not made friends," said Dolly. "My mother's health has kept her at home—and I have stayed with her."
"But, my dear, you are just at an age when it is natural to want friends and to enjoy them. In later life one learns to be sufficient to one's self; but not at eighteen. I am afraid Brierley must be sadly lonely to you."
"Oh no," said Dolly, with her sweet gleam of a smile, which went all over her face; "I am not lonesome."
"Will you come and see me sometimes?"
"If I can. Thank you, Lady Brierley."
"You seem to me to be a good deal of a philosopher," said the lady, who evidently still found Dolly a puzzle. "Or is it rather an artist, that I should say?"—glancing at the drawing-table—"I know artists are very sufficient to themselves."