"Of what do you suspect me?
Can you think I am unfeeling--ungrateful?
I should not be YOUR daughter." "No, no," said the baroness, "to do you justice, you attempt sorrow; as you put on black.

But, my poor child, you do it with so little skill that one sees a horrible gayety breaking through that thin disguise: you are no true mourners: you are like the mutes or the undertakers at a funeral, forced grief on the surface of your faces, and frightful complacency below." "Tra la! lal! la! la! Tra la! la! Tra la! la!" carolled Jacintha, in the colonel's room hard by.
The ladies looked at one another: Rose in great confusion.
"Tra la! la! la! Tra lal! lal! la! la! la!" "Jacintha!" screamed Rose angrily.
"Hush! not a word," said the baroness.

"Why remonstrate with HER?
Servants are but chameleons: they take the color of those they serve.

Do not cry.

I wanted your confidence, not your tears, love.