"Oh, is it as bad as that?" I said, in affright. "Don't you like her?"
"Like her!" reflected the Angel, slowly. "I hate her."
I gasped. Never, never had my husband expressed even a settled dislike of any one before, while as to the word "hate"—
"Oh, Aubrey!" I cried, tearfully. "I wish you had said it before. The fact is, I've—well, I've invited her to visit me and she says she'll come."
If I expected an explosion, I was mistaken. Aubrey bit into his pipe-stem and sat looking at me for a moment without speaking, a kind, wistful look which completely undid me, and made me resolved never, never again to do a single thing without consulting him first. Then he leaned forward and slowly began to empty and clean his pipe.
"You like her very much?" he said, tentatively.
"I do, indeed!" I exclaimed, enthusiastically. "And she is so fond of you. She fairly adores you. If you would only try to like her, Aubrey—she likes you so much—don't smile that way. You don't do her justice. Indeed you don't. Why, she is the dearest, most confiding, innocent little thing, just out of college last month—a baby couldn't have more clinging, dependent ways."
"I'm glad she is coming to visit you, if that's the way you feel about her," he said.
I drew a sigh of relief. Some husbands would have made such a fuss that their wives would have felt obliged to cancel the invitation. Aubrey was different.
"How did you come to invite her?" he asked, presently.