His answer was another kiss, and as he turned toward his dressing closet, her heart ached with unspoken tenderness. Her dinner was brought in. She was not considered strong enough to sit at table. For this service an extra charge was made.
Later, when he opened the evening paper, she sat and watched him. Surely those lines of care were new, now that he was not smiling fondly upon her. Oh, foolish, selfish wife! Rising gently, her long silken tea-gown trailing behind her, she stood beside him, one slender white hand upon his shoulder.
"Well, dear, what now? Another new gown?" he asked, with his old, sweet smile.
She pressed her lips in a slow, reverential fashion, upon the broad white brow, another pang at her heart. Then she spoke:
"Not this time. Harry, dear, let's go to Mrs. Wickham's to board."
"Mrs. Wickham's!" he echoed. "Why, you wouldn't stay in her dull little place a week."
But even as he spoke there flashed through his mind in rapid calculation, "Twenty dollars a week there, forty here; eighty dollars a month saved; nearly a thousand dollars a year."
"Don't you like it here?" were his next words, as he glanced around the luxurious suite.
"Yes," she said, "except there are too many people. It is so noisy."