“Oh, Ned, you did not really say that to her!” said Marian. “I did indeed. The shocking part of the affair is not, as you seem to think, my giving the advice, but that it should be the very best advice I could have given.” “I do not think I would have said so.” “Most likely not,” said Conolly, with a smile. “You would have said something much prettier. But dipsomania is not one of the pretty things of life; nor can it by any stretch of benevolent hypocrisy be made to pass as one. When Susanna and I get talking, we do not waste time in trying to spare one another’s feelings. If we did, we should both see through the attempt and be very impatient of it.” “Did she tell you what she intends to do?” said Marmaduke. “She has accepted an American engagement. When that draws to a close, it will, she says, be time enough for her to consider her next step. But she has no intention of leaving the stage until she is compelled.” “Has she any intention of reforming her habits?” said Elinor, bluntly. “I should say every intention, but no prospect of doing so. Dipsomaniacs are always intending to reform; but they rarely succeed. Has Lucy been put to bed?” “Lucy is in disgrace,” said Elinor. Marian looked at her apprehensively. “In disgrace!” said Conolly, more seriously. “How so?” Elinor described what had taken place in the garden. When she told how the child had disregarded Marian’s appeal, Conolly laughed. “Lucy has no sense of how pretty she would have looked toddling in obediently because her aunt asked her to,” he said. “She is, like all children, very practical, and will not assist in getting up amiable little scenes without good reason rendered.” Elinor glanced at Marian, and saw that though Douglas was speaking to her in a low voice, she was listening nervously to her husband. So she said sharply, “It is a pity you were not here to tell us what to do.” “Apparently it is,” said Conolly, complacently. “What would you have done?” said Marian suddenly, interrupting Douglas. “I suppose,” said Conolly, looking round at her in surprise, “I should have answered her question—told her what she was wanted for. If I asked you to do anything, and you enquired why, you would be extremely annoyed if I answered, ‘because I ask you.’” “I would not ask why,” said Marian. “I would do it.” “That would be very nice of you,” said Conolly; “but you cannot: expect such a selfish, mistrustful, and curious animal as a little child to be equally kind and confiding. Lucy is too acute not to have learned long since that grown people systematically impose on the credulity and helplessness of children.” “Thats true,” said Elinor, reluctantly. Marian turned away and quietly resumed her conversation with Douglas. After a minute she strolled with him into the garden, whither Marmaduke had already retired to smoke. “Has the evening been a pleasant one, Miss McQuinch?” said Conolly, left alone with her.