Alth. I—I don't know. He writes for the paper.
Mrs. M. That's vague, dear. What sort of paper? Political, Scientific, Sporting, Society—or what?
Alth. I never asked; but I should think—well, he's rather serious, you know, Cissie.
Mrs. M. Then it's a comic paper, my dear, depend upon it!
Alth. Oh, Cissie, I'm sure it isn't. And he's very hardworking. He's not like most men of his age, he doesn't care in the least for amusements.
Mrs. M. He must be a very lively person. But tell me—you used to tell me everything, THEA—does this immaculate paragon show any signs of——?
Alth. (in a low voice). I'm not sure——Perhaps—but I may be mistaken.
Mrs. M. And if—don't think me horribly impertinent—but if you're not mistaken, have you made up your mind what answer to give him?
Alth. (imploringly). Don't tease me, Cissie. I thought once—but now I really don't know. I wish he wasn't so strict and severe. I wish he understood that one can't always be solemn—that one must have a little enjoyment in one's life, when one is young!
Mrs. M. And yet I seem to remember a girl who had serious searchings of heart, not so very long ago, as to whether it wasn't sinful to go and see Shakspeare at the Lyceum!