Alice stared incredulously at Lydia. "I do not think there can be
two people in the world less like one another," she said.

"Nor do I," said Lydia, meditatively. "But I think their
dissimilarity owes its emphasis to some lurking likeness. Otherwise
how could he have reminded me of her?" Lydia, as she spoke, sat down
with a troubled expression, as if trying to unravel her thoughts.
"And yet," she added, presently, "my theatrical associations are so
complex that--" A long silence ensued, during which Alice, conscious
of some unusual stir in her patroness, watched her furtively and
wondered what would happen next.

"Alice."

"Yes."

"My mind is exercising itself in spite of me on small and
impertinent matters--a sure symptom of failing mental health. My
presence here is only one of several attempts that I have made to
live idly since my father's death. They have all failed. Work has
become necessary to me. I will go to London tomorrow."

Alice looked up in dismay; for this seemed equivalent to a
dismissal. But her face expressed nothing but polite indifference.

"We shall have time to run through all the follies of the season
before June, when I hope to return here and set to work at a book I
have planned. I must collect the material for it in London. If I
leave town before the season is over, and you are unwilling to come