“But the señora's toilette is not finished; the sandals, the gloves, the garland yet remain.”
“Leave them all; I shall not go down. I am tired of this endless folly. Give me that book and go.”
The pretty Creole obeyed; and careless of Dolores' work, Pauline sank into the deep chair with a listless mien, turned the pages for a little, then lost herself in thoughts that seemed to bring no rest.
Silently the young husband entered and, pausing, regarded his wife with mingled pain and pleasure—pain to see her so spiritless, pleasure to see her so fair. She seemed unconscious of his presence till the fragrance of his floral burden betrayed him, and looking up to smile a welcome she met a glance that changed the sad dreamer into an excited actor, for it told her that the object of her search was found. Springing erect, she asked eagerly, “Manuel, is he here?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“His wife is with him.”
“Is she beautiful?”
“Pretty, petite, and petulant.”
“And he?”