I pull up the loose sleeve of my dress and look with some satisfaction upon the "pretty soft roundness." My old weakness for compliments is strong upon me.
"Why did you not finish your sentence?" I ask, slyly: "you were going to say when I was a girl."
"Because you look such a girl still—such a mere child, indeed—that I thought it would sound absurd."
"I am glad of that. I would wish to be young and fresh always.
"There was a time," with a faint smile, "when you longed with equal vigor to be old and worldly-wise."
"Ah, yes! what a goose I was then! But really, though, I am growing horribly fat. My hands, even—see how plump they are."
I lay five slight little fingers in his, confidingly: I can see how he reddens at my touch. He holds them softly, and turns them over to see the pink palm at the other side, and then turns them back again, but he does not speak: very slowly, but with determination, he lets them go.
"No fear of my wedding-ring coming off now," I say, cheerfully, though somewhat disconcerted at the failure of my last little ruse; "not even when I wash my hands does it stir. I won't be able to get rid of it in a hurry."
"That seems rather a pity, does it not?" remarks he, bitterly.
"A pity? Why, I would never forgive myself if I lost it."