Bartlett.—"Oh—over! No, it isn't over. When she's with me a while she comes to see that I am not a mere doppelgänger. She respites me to that extent. But I have still some small rags of self-esteem dangling about me; and now suppose I should presume to set up for somebody on my own account; the first hint of my caring for her as I do, if she could conceive of anything so atrocious, would tear open all the old sorrows. Ah! I can't think of it. Besides, I tell you, it isn't all over. It's only not so bad as it was. She's subject to relapses, when it's much worse than ever. Why"—Bartlett stands facing his friend, with a half-whimsical, half-desperate smile, as if about to illustrate his point, when Constance and her mother enter the parlour.
[1] Aftermath.
II.
Constance, Mrs. Wyatt, Bartlett, and Cummings.
Constance, with a quick violent arrest.—"Ah! Oh!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Constance, Constance, darling! What's the matter?"
Constance.—"Oh, nothing—nothing." She laughs, nervously. "I thought there was nobody—here; and it—startled me. How do you do, Mr. Cummings?" She goes quickly up to that gentleman, and gives him her hand. "Don't you think it wonderful to find such a day as this, up here, at this time of year?" She struggles to control the panting breath in which she speaks.
Cummings.—"Yes, I supposed I had come quite too late for anything of the sort. You must make haste with your Ponkwasset, Miss Wyatt, or you'll have to paint him with his winter cap on."