This she had from her father, a man of quips and jokes on the surface of his seriousness.

As she grew older, it threatened a decline of intimacy between her and her cousin Olga, who, never naturally buoyant, was becoming so cheerless, so turbid of temper, that Irene found it difficult to talk with her for long together.

Domestic miseries might greatly account for the girl's mood, but Irene had insight enough to perceive that this was not all.

And she felt uncomfortably helpless.

To jest seemed unfeeling; sympathy of the sentimental sort she could not give.