“Those were happy times,” said Dorothy. Then the little sigh became a laugh. “I mean to enjoy myself to-day, Richard. But I fear I shall not see as much of you as I used. You are old enough to play the host, now.”
“You shall see as much as you will.”
“Where have you been of late, sir? In Gloucester Street?”
“'Tis your own fault, Dolly. You are changeable as the sky,—to-day sunny, and to-morrow cold. I am sure of my welcome in Gloucester Street.”
She tripped a step as we turned the corner, and came closer to my side.
“You must learn to take me as you find me, dear Richard. To-day I am in a holiday humour.”
Some odd note in her tone troubled me, and I glanced at her quickly. She was a constant wonder and puzzle to me. After that night at the theatre my hopes had risen for the hundredth time, but I had gone to Prince George Street on the morrow to meet another rebuff—and Fitzhugh. So I had learned to interpret her by other means than words, and now her mood seemed reckless rather than merry.
“Are you not happy, Dolly?” I asked abruptly.
She laughed. “What a silly question!” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I believe you are not.”