"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."
In surprise she looked up at me, and then down at the pearls upon her satin slippers.
"I am going with you to your birthday festival, Richard. Could we wish for more? I am as happy as you."