to her daughter, as the waiter went away. To this remark Grace made no answer. She had been used, for a long time back, to hearing that everything was very dear; it was what one always expected. So she found the case herself, but she was silent and inventive about it.
Nothing further passed, in the way of conversation with her mother, while they waited for the latter's orders to be executed, till Lady Agnes reflected, audibly: "He makes me unhappy, the way he talks about Julia."
"Sometimes I think he does it to torment one. One can't mention her!" Grace responded.
"It's better not to mention her, but to leave it alone."
"Yet he never mentions her of himself."
"In some cases that is supposed to show that people like people—though of course something more than that is required," Lady Agnes continued to meditate. "Sometimes I think he's thinking of her; then at others I can't fancy what he's thinking of."
"It would be awfully suitable," said Grace, biting her roll.
Her mother was silent a moment, as if she were looking for some higher ground to put it upon. Then she appeared to find this loftier level in the observation: "Of course he must like her; he has known her always."
"Nothing can be plainer than that she likes him," Grace declared.
"Poor Julia!" Lady Agnes exclaimed; and her tone suggested that she knew more about that than she was ready to state.
"It isn't as if she wasn't clever and well read," her daughter
