temptuous pity. I'm here in the position of a man who's escorted a lady to make an attempt to 'get something' out of your father."
"Poor Mr. Ogle," she said softly. "You do mix yourself a bitter drink to swallow, don't you? You'll have to exonerate me from feeling 'contemptuous pity' though; you know perfectly well it isn't contemptuous. The women in your play were the best things in it, I thought; and that makes me wonder what couldn't she do to Papa, if she can do all this to you! I'm afraid you're wasting time feeling sorry for yourself, because there's somebody to feel a great deal sorrier for than for you; and that's Papa. You don't know my mother, Mr. Ogle."
"I seem to be too busy getting to know myself a little!" Then, improving somewhat upon the tragic smile she had asked him to forego, he turned to her with an air as nearly brisk as he could make it. "You thought I could be of use to you. What do you want me to do?"
"You are kind," she said; and she nodded as if confirming to herself an impression there had once been some doubt about. Then she looked at him half humorously, half solicitously, and was reluctant.
