ard at the button; "are people
always lonely when their husbands are away?"

He looks at me strangely for a moment; then, "Of course she is lonely,
poor little thing!" he says, warmly; "how could she help it?"

A slight pause.

"_Most_ men," say I, jealously, "would not have thought it a hardship to
walk up and down between the laurustinus with Mrs. Zephine, I can tell
you!"

"Would not they?" he answers, indifferently. "I dare say not! she always
_was_ a good little thing!"

"Excellent!" reply I, with a nasty dryness, "bland, passionate, and
deeply religious!"

Again he looks at me in surprise--a surprise which, after a moment's
reflection, melts and brightens into an expression of pleasure.

"Did you care so much about my coming that ten minutes seemed to make a
difference?" he asks, in an eager voice. "Is it possible that you were
_in a hurry_ for me?"

Why cannot I speak truth, and say yes? Why does an objectlessly lying
devil make its inopportune entry into me? Through some misplaced and
crooked false shame I answer, "Not at all! not at all! of course a few
minutes one way or the other could not make much difference; I was only
puzzled to know what had become of you?"

He looks a shade disappointed, and for a moment we are both silent. We
have sat down side by side on the sofa. Vick is standing on her hinder
legs, with her forepaws rested on Roger's knee. Her tail is wagging with
the strong and untiring regularity of a pendulum, and a smirk of welcome
and recognition is on her face. Roger's arm is round me, and we are
holding each other's hands, but we are no longer in heaven. I could not
tell you _why_, but we are not. Some stupid constraint--quite of
earth--has fallen upon me. Where are all those most tender words, those
profuse endearments with which I meant to have greeted him?

"And so it is actually true!" he says, with a long-drawn sigh of relief;
his eyes wandering round the room, and taking in all the familiar
objects; "there is no mistake about it! I am actually holding your real
live hand" (turning it gently about and softly considering the long
slight fingers and pink palm)--"in mine! Ah! my dear, how often, how
often I have held it so in my dreams! Have you ever" (speaking with a
sort of doubtfulness and uncertain hope)--"have you ever--no, I dare say
not--so held mine?"

The diffident passion in his voice for once destroys that vile
constraint, dissipates that idiotic sense of bashfulnes