"She amuses me," said Blanche.
"Lucky for you."
Blanche took up her work, and sat beside her husband, who, stretched upon the sofa, a cigar in his mouth, was at what he chose to consider his morning meditations. He certainly did think; but thought of the club, of society, of opera singers, and of his past life, far more than he thought of his work. From time to time he spoke to Blanche, and the subjects upon which he spoke were sufficiently trivial to have told any one more clear-sighted than she was, how little art occupied his reveries.
His cigar finished, he put on a pair of white kid gloves, and occupied himself for half an hour cleaning them with india-rubber, whistling, humming, and chatting all the while with enviable insouciance.
That important business concluded, he rose, kissed his wife, yawned, stretched his limbs, looked out of the window, and then took up his bottes vernies, which he began to rub up, and brighten with a piece of wool dipped in oil, whistling, humming, and chatting as before.
"What time is it, I wonder?" he said, drawing out his watch, "nearly twelve! whew! how the morning flies. I must be off. Where's my coat, Pet?"
She gave him his coat, and in another half hour he had completed his toilet, and was ready to start.
"God bless you, my Pet!" he said, embracing her.
"Shall you be home to dinner to-day, dearest?"
"No, I am to dine with Lufton; and this evening we go to Miss Mason's."