Canaris was talking eagerly, as he turned the leaves of a thin manuscript which lay between them. Helwyze listened, with his eyes fixed on the speaker so intently that it startled the new-comer, when, without a sound to warn him of her approach, he turned suddenly upon her with the smile which dazzled without warming those on whom it was shed.
“I have been chiding this capricious fellow for the haste which spoils the welcome I hoped to give you. But I pardon him, since he brings the sunshine with him,” he said, going to meet her, with genuine pleasure in his face.
“I could not have a kinder welcome, sir. I was glad to come; Felix feared you might be needing him.”
“So duty brought him back a week too soon? A poet’s honeymoon should be a long one; I regret to be the cause of its abridgment.”
Something in the satirical glimmer of his eye made Gladys glance at her husband, who spoke out frankly,—
“There were other reasons. Gladys hates a crowd, and so do I. Bad weather made it impossible to be romantic, so we thought it best to come home and be comfortable.”
“I trust you will be; but I have little to offer, since the attractions of half a dozen cities could not satisfy you.”
“Indeed, we should be most ungrateful if we were not happy here,” cried Gladys, eagerly. “Only let me be useful as well as happy, else I shall not deserve this lovely home you give us.”
“She is anxious to begin her ministrations; and I can recommend her, for she is quick to learn one’s ways, patient with one’s whims, fruitful in charming devices for amusement, and the best of comrades,” said Canaris, drawing her to him with a look more grateful than fond.
“From that speech, and other signs, I infer that Felix is about to leave me to your tender mercies, and fall to work upon his new book; since it seems he could not resist making poetry when he should have been making love. Are you not jealous of the rival who steals him from you, even before the honeymoon has set?” asked Helwyze, touching the little manuscript before him.