Marian blushed.  Conolly did not seem to have been moved by the song.  He was alert and loquacious:  before he had finished his greeting and apology to Douglas, they all felt as little sentimental as they had ever done in their lives.  Marian, after asking whether he had dined, became silent, and dropped the pretty airs of command which, as hostess, she had worn before.

“Have you any news?” said Marmaduke at last.  “Douglas knows the whole business.  We are all friends here.”

“Only what we expected,” said Conolly.  “Affairs are exactly as they were.  I called to-day at her address—­”

“How did you get it?” said Marmaduke.

“I wrote for it to her at the theatre.”

“And did she send it?”

“Of course.  But she did not give me any encouragement to call on her, and, in fact, evidently did not want to see me.  Her appearance has altered very much for the worse.  She is a confirmed dipsomaniac; and she knows it.  I advised her to abstain in future.  She asked me, in her sarcastic, sisterly way, whether I had any other advice to give her.  I told her that if she meant to go on, her proper course was to purchase a hogshead of brandy; keep it by her side; and condense the process of killing herself, which may at present take some years, into a few days.”

“Oh, Ned, you did not really say that to her!” said Marian.

“I did indeed.  The shocking part of the affair is not, as you seem to think, my giving the advice, but that it should be the very best advice I could have given.”

“I do not think I would have said so.”

“Most likely not,” said Conolly, with a smile.  “You would have said something much prettier.  But dipsomania is not one of the pretty things of life; nor can it by any stretch of benevolent hypocrisy be made to pass as one.  When Susanna and I get talking, we do not waste time in trying to spare one another’s feelings.  If we did, we should both see through the attempt and be very impatient of it.”

“Did she tell you what she intends to do?” said Marmaduke.

“She has accepted an American engagement.  When that draws to a close, it will, she says, be time enough for her to consider her next step.  But she has no intention of leaving the stage until she is compelled.”

“Has she any intention of reforming her habits?” said Elinor, bluntly.

“I should say every intention, but no prospect of doing so.  Dipsomaniacs are always intending to reform; but they rarely succeed.  Has Lucy been put to bed?”

“Lucy is in disgrace,” said Elinor.  Marian looked at her apprehensively.

“In disgrace!” said Conolly, more seriously.  “How so?”

Elinor described what had taken place in the garden.  When she told how the child had disregarded Marian’s appeal, Conolly laughed.

“Lucy has no sense of how pretty she would have looked toddling in obediently because her aunt asked her to,” he said.  “She is, like all children, very practical, and will not assist in getting up amiable little scenes without good reason rendered.”