Leslie Makes a Declaration.
“Where is Harry?” said George Vine that same evening, as he sat in his study, surrounded by his living specimens of natural history, and with the paper before him that he had vainly tried to fill.
“He must be waiting about down in the town—for news,” said Louise, looking up from her work.
“He ought to have been here to dinner, my dear,” said the naturalist querulously; “it would have been some comfort. Tut—tut—tut! I cannot collect my thoughts; everything seems to slip from me.”
“Then why not leave it, dear, for the present? This terrible trouble as unhinged you.”
She had risen and gone to the back of his chair, to pass her arm lovingly about his neck, and he leaned back, dropping his pen to take her hand and play with it, pressing it to his lips from time to time.
“I suppose I had better,” he said sadly; “but I am dreadfully behindhand—four letters from the Society unanswered. I wish they did not expect so much from me, my darling.”
“I do not,” said Louise, smiling. “Why should you wish to be less learned than you are?”
“Had we not better go on again to Van Heldre’s now?”
“I think I would leave it till quite the last thing.”