CHAPTER LXIX. — IN AND OUT.
“And Boniface Newt has failed,” said Mr. Bennet to his wife, in a low voice.
He was shading his eyes with his hand, and his wife was peacefully sewing beside him.
She made no reply, but her face became serious, then changed to an expression in which, from under his hands, for her husband’s eyes were not weak, her husband saw the faintest glimmering of triumph. But Mrs. Bennet did not raise her eyes from her work.
“Lucia!” He spoke so earnestly that his wife involuntarily started.
“My dear,” she replied, looking at him with a tear in her eye, “it is only natural.”
Her husband said nothing, but shook his slippered foot, and his neck sunk a little lower in his limp, white cravat. They were alone in the little parlor, with only the portrait on the wall for company, and only the roses in the glass upon the table, that were never wanting, and always showed a certain elegance of taste in arrangement and care which made the daughter of the house seem to be present though she might be away.
“What a beautiful night!” said Mr. Bennet at last, as his eyes lingered upon the window through which he saw the soft illumination of the full moonlight.
His wife looked for a moment with him, and answered, “Beautiful!”