Mrs. Wyatt.—"I am sure he doesn't. Mr. Cummings only told him that his resemblance was a painful association. He assured your father of this, and wouldn't hear a word more. I'm certain you're wrong. But what made you think he knows?"
Constance, solemnly.—"He behaved just as if he didn't."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Ah, you can't judge from that, my dear." Impressively: "Men are very different."
Constance, doubtfully.—"Do you think so, mamma?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"I'm certain of it."
Constance, after a pause.—"Mamma, will you help take this shawl off my feet? I am so warm. I think I should like to walk about a little. Can you see the island from the gallery?"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Do you think you'd better try to leave your chair, Constance?"
Constance.—"Yes, I'm stronger this morning. And I shall never gain, lounging about this way." She begins to loose the wraps from her feet, and Mrs. Wyatt coming doubtfully to her aid she is presently freed. She walks briskly towards the sofa, and sits down quite erectly in the corner of it. "There! that's pleasanter. I get so tired of being a burden." She is silent, and then she begins softly and wearily to laugh again.
Mrs. Wyatt, smiling curiously.—"What is it, Constance? I don't at all understand what made you laugh."