She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Will I meet you there?’ ‘Yes, yes, I shall await you. “You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. It’s not you—not a bit. But, after all, what does that matter? He is very much taken with me. We sha’n’t hang up on any misunderstanding.
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