“Am I? Are you?” he asked, reading the answer in her face, before she could whisper, with the look of mingled awe and adoration which she always wore when speaking of him as a poet,—
“Never can I tell you what I feel. It almost frightens me to find how well you know me and yourself, and other hearts like ours. What gives you this wonderful power, and shows you how to use it?”
“Don’t praise it too much, or I shall wish I had destroyed, instead of re-sorting, the second part for you to hear.” Canaris spoke almost roughly, and rose, as if about to go and do it now. But Gladys caught his hand, saying gayly, as she drew him out into the fire-light with persuasive energy,—
“That you shall never do; but come and enjoy it with us. You need not be so modest, for you know you like it. Now I am perfectly happy.”
She looked so, as she saw her husband sink into the tall-backed chair, and took her place beside him, laughing at the almost comic mixture of sternness, resignation, and impatience betrayed by his set lips, silent acquiescence, and excited eyes.
“Now we are ready;” and Gladys folded her hands with the rapturous contentment of a child at its first fairy spectacle.
“All but the story. I will fetch it;” and Helwyze stepped quickly behind the screen before either could stir.
Gladys half rose, but Canaris drew her down again, whispering, in an almost resentful tone,—
“Let him, if he will; you wait on him too much. I put the papers in order; he will read them easily enough.”
“Nay, do not be angry, dear; he does it to please me, and surely no one could read it better. I know you would feel too much to do it well,” she answered, her hand in his, with its most soothing touch.