"Do you want me to keep always in Rosemary Lane?" she inquired, with her lovely blue eyes fixed full upon him.
"It doesn't matter to you," she said, "whether I stop at home or not; there is nothing for me to do, and I sometimes feel that--that----"
Her eyes wandered round the cellar in dull discontent, and with something of self-reproach, also, for the feeling which she strove but could not find words to express.
"Well, my dear?" said Seth, patiently waiting for an explanation.
"Only this, guardian," she rejoined, "that I must go away when I like, and that you mustn't stop me. If you do"--with a little laugh which might mean anything or nothing--"I might run away altogether."
"Then there are other places," said Seth, after a short pause; he found it necessary very often when conversing with the Duchess to consider his words before he uttered them; "and other people that you love better than us."
"Other places, not other people. I don't know any other people."
"You don't love Rosemary Lane, my dear," he said wistfully.
"What is there to love in it?" she replied, evading the question. "I might love it less if I were not free to go from it when the fit seizes me----"
"But you go always alone, my dear," he said, with a sigh, "and I am afraid you might get into mischief."
"What mischief?" she asked, with innocent wonder in her face. "No one would hurt me. Everybody is kind to me. But as you seem to care for it, I'll take Sally with me now and then. So here's a kiss, guardian, and we'll say no more about it."
Time ripened, but did not beautify Sally. Her figure was awkward and ungainly, and her limbs had not the roundness or the grace of those of the Duchess. Her face was at once too young and too old for her age; you saw in it both the innocence and simplicity of the child and the wary look of the woman of the world who knows that snares abound. Her skin was as brown as a berry, and her form appeared lank and thin, although she and the Duchess were of the same height. Undressing one night, they stood, with bare shoulders, side by side, looking into the glass. The contrast was very striking, and both saw and felt it, the Duchess with a joyous palpitation because of her beauty, and Sally with no repining because of her lack of it. The contrast was striking even in the quality and fashion of their linen, Sally's being coarse, and brown as the skin it covered, and the Duchess's being white and fine, with delicate edgings about it.