“Well, it is very serious, Dodo,” said Celia, becoming more impressive. “How will you live? and you will go away among queer people. And I shall never see you⁠—and you won’t mind about little Arthur⁠—and I thought you always would⁠—”

Celia’s rare tears had got into her eyes, and the corners of her mouth were agitated.

“Dear Celia,” said Dorothea, with tender gravity, “if you don’t ever see me, it will not be my fault.”

“Yes, it will,” said Celia, with the same touching distortion of her small features. “How can I come to you or have you with me when James can’t bear it?⁠—that is because he thinks it is not right⁠—he thinks you are so wrong, Dodo. But you always were wrong: only I can’t help loving you. And nobody can think where you will live: where can you go?”

“I am going to London,” said Dorothea.