"You will be sorry for this," said Seymour Michael, sitting down. "You
will not thank your cousin."
"Why?" inquired Dora, prepared to like him, possibly because he had a
brown face and wore his hair cut short.
"Because," he replied, "I am hopelessly new to this work."
"So am I," replied Dora; "I don't even know what pictures to look at and
what to ignore. So I dare not look at the walls at all."
"That is precisely my position, only I am worse. You know how to behave
in polite circles; I don't. You have a slightly tired look, as if this
sort of thing wearied you by reason of its monotony."
"Have I? I am sorry for that."
"No, there is no reason to be sorry. They all have it."
"But," protested Dora, "I am not one of them. I am only aping the
Romans."
"You do it well; I shall study your method. You do it better than Edith
Mazerod."
"Edith is young--hopelessly, enviably young. Do you know them well?"
"Yes, I knew them in India."
"Of course; I forgot."
He turned and looked at her sharply.
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