light wings,' and all that nonsense, he is impeded; now open to
him 'Italian, the language of angels'--you know the old rhyme--and
see what a chance he has among the "liquid l's and bell-voiced m's and
crushed tz's." To-night you will hear Desdemona call Othello 'Il mio
marito,' in a way that will start the tears. What are the stiff English
words to that? 'My husband!' Husband is a very uneuphonious name, I
think."

Norman Mann smiled. "Another cup of coffee, if you please--not quite as
sweet as the last," and he passed his cup. "I believe there is always a
charm in a novel word that has not been commonized by the crowd. 'Dear'
means very little to us nowadays, because every school girl is every
other school girl's 'dear,' and elderly ladies 'my dear' the world at
large, in a pretty and benevolent way. So with the words 'husband' and
'wife'; we hear them every day in commonest speech--'the coachman and
his wife,' or 'Sally Jones's husband,'--but I take it this is when we
stand outside. That wonderful little possessive pronoun MY has a great,
thrilling power. 'My husband' will be as fine to your ears as 'il mio
marito,' which has, after all, a slippery, uncertain sound; and as for
'my wife'--"

At that moment the coffee cup, which was on its way back, had reached
the middle of the table, where by right it should have been met and
guided by the steadier, masculine hand; Norman's hand was there in
readiness, but instead of gently removing the cup from Mae's clasp, it
folded itself involuntarily about the white, round wrist, as he paused
on these last words. Was it the little possessive pronoun that sent the
sudden thrill through the unexpecting wrist? At any rate it trembled;
the cup, the saucer, the coffee, the spoon, followed a well known
precedent, and "went to pieces all at once;" "all at once and nothing
first just as bubbles do when they burst." And so alas! did the
conversation, and that burst a beautiful bubble Norman had just blown.

Damages were barely repaired when Eric entered the breakfast room with a
petulant sort of face and flung himself into a chair. "My! what a head I
have on me this morning," he groaned. "Soda water would be worth all the
coffee in the world, Mae; I'll take it black, if you please. How cosy
you two look. I always take too much of every thing at a party, from
flirtation to--O, Mae, you needn't look so sad. I'm not the one in
disgrace now. Mrs. Jerrold, Edith and Albert are just piping