Bertha had finished the coffee when he returned to her. The blanched look had left her, and her voice, when she spoke, sounded more natural and steady.
"It did me good," she said, and this time she looked at him, and there was something in her uplifted eyes which touched him.
"I knew it would," he answered.
"You always know," she said. "There is no one who knows so well what is good for me"; and she said it with great gentleness.
He took refuge from himself, as he sometimes found it discreet to do, in his usual airy lightness.
"I am all soul myself," he remarked, "as you may have observed, and I understand the temptation to scorn earthly food and endeavor to subsist wholly upon the plaudits of the multitude. You will, perhaps, permit me to remark that though the new gown"—with an approving glance at it—"is an immense and unqualified success, I doubt its power to sustain nature during the six or eight hours of a New Year's reception."
Bertha glanced down at it herself.
"Do you think it is pretty?" she asked.
"I shouldn't call it pretty," he replied. "I should call it something more impressive."
She still looked at it.