'How lovable of her! Cecily's neatness is a painful example to me,
and I don't believe she would tell a fib to save my life.'

'Tell me,' said Mrs. Morgan, as the lunch-bell rang and she gathered
her occupation into her work-basket, 'who is that talking to her?'

'Oh, an old friend,' I replied easily; 'Dacres Tottenham, a dear
fellow, and most benevolent. He is trying on my behalf to reconcile
her to the life she'll have to lead in India.'

'She won't need much reconciling, if she's like most girls,'
observed Mrs. Morgan, 'but he seems to be trying very hard.'

That was quite the way I took it--on my behalf--for several days.
When people have understood you very adequately for ten years you do
not expect them to boggle at any problem you may present at the end
of the decade. I thought Dacres was moved by a fine sense of
compassion. I thought that with his admirable perception he had put
a finger on the little comedy of fruitfulness in my life that
laughed so bitterly at the tragedy of the barren woman, and was
attempting, by delicate manipulation, to make it easier. I really
thought so. Then I observed that myself had preposterously deceived
me, that it wasn't like that at all. When Mr. Tottenham joined us,
Cecily and me, I saw that he listened more than he talked, with an
ear specially cocked to register any small irony which might appear
in my remarks to my daughter. Naturally he registered more than
there were, to make up perhaps for dear Cecily's obviously not
registering any. I could see, too, that he was suspicious of any
flavour of kindness; finally, to avoid the strictures of his upper
lip, which really, dear fellow, began to bore me, I talked