"Is _this_ a proper subject for a young woman to study?" exclaims papa, in high disgust, when he has read through the headings of the chapters. "What an abominable girl you are! Go over there and sit down, and keep yourself out of mischief for the remainder of the evening, if you _can_." "Would you like Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'?" asks Dora, sweetly, raising her white lids for a moment to hold out to me an elegant little edition in green and gold. "No, thank you," I answer, curtly, and, subsiding into my chair, sulk comfortably until bedtime. CHAPTER X. The next day Dora is still low--very low indeed--and sighs heavily at intervals. We might, however, in spite of this, have managed to knock some enjoyment out of our lives, but, unfortunately, whatever communication she had made to papa on the subject of Mr. Carrington's treachery has had the effect of rendering him almost unbearable. At breakfast the playfulness of his remarks can only be equalled by the sweetness of his expression; and by lunch-hour he is so much worse that (as far at least as I am concerned) the food before me is as dust and ashes. I think Roland rather enjoys the murkiness of our atmosphere than otherwise, and takes a small but evident pleasure in winking at me as he presses the vinegar and pepper upon our already highly-seasoned father. The latter, knowing my nomadic tendencies, is successful in bringing to light during the day a dozen unhemmed cambric handkerchiefs, and before going to his customary afternoon ride leaves strict injunctions behind him that by my fingers they are to be begun and ended before his return. About four o'clock, therefore, behold me sitting in state in the drawing-room, in company with mamma and Dora, hard at work at my enforced task. The conversation is limited; it dwindles, indeed, until it gets so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and relapse into silence. Dora broods with tender melancholy upon her woes; mother thinks of us; while I, were I to give a voice to my thoughts, would demand of mother the name of the evil genius that possessed her when she walked to the altar with papa. The needle runs into my finger; it does so pretty regularly after every fifth stitch, but this time it had got under my nail, and causes me for the moment keen anguish. I groan, and mutter something under my breath; and mother says, "Phyllis, darling, be careful," in a dreamy tone. Surely we are more than ordinarily dull. Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses' hoofs upon the gravel outside. We raise our heads simultaneously and question each other by our looks. A little later, and Mr. Carrington's voice striking on our ears sets speculation at rest. Mamma glances furtively at Dora, and Dora breathes a faint sigh and blushes pale pink, while suffering an aggrieved expression to characterize her face.