“It’s because you don’t hunt for it,” said the wife.
He turned upon her with flashing countenance only to meet her laugh, and to have his head pulled down to her lips. He dropped into the seat left by the physician, laid his head back in his knit hands, and crossed his feet under the chair.
“John, I do like Dr. Sevier.”
“Why?” The questioner looked at the ceiling.
“Why, don’t you like him?” asked the wife, and, as John smiled, she added, “You know you like him.”
The husband grasped the poker in both hands, dropped his elbows upon his knees, and began touching the fire, saying slowly:—
“I believe the Doctor thinks I’m a fool.”
“That’s nothing,” said the little wife; “that’s only because you married me.”
The poker stopped rattling between the grate-bars; the husband looked at the wife. Her eyes, though turned partly away, betrayed their mischief. There was a deadly pause; then a rush to the assault, a shower of Cupid’s arrows, a quick surrender.
But we refrain. Since ever the world began it is Love’s real, not his sham, battles that are worth the telling.