Prudence tipped her head back and laughed ringingly, her eyes still upon her husband's face. There was a little added color on her cheeks. The laugh was somehow so exasperating, so strangely insulting, that Lawrence rose to his feet in a fury. But he sat down again directly and resumed his old position.
"You seem to be amused," he remarked, coldly.
"Yes." She laughed again. "I was imagining the meeting,—such astounding propriety as I know characterized it. You would do the right thing, and Caro is nothing if not proper. Caro is a darling girl, and I love her dearly, but you must confess that she is proper, Rodney dear."
"Yes, I confess that," he said, grimly.
"Certainly; she would never take the least little part in a French novel."
"Never," he agreed, with emphasis.
Prudence gazed at her husband a moment without speaking. Her eyes changed. She rose and went to him; she stood by his side, put an arm lightly about his neck, and bent down slightly towards him. He sat perfectly quiet.
"I'm sorry you allowed yourself to get so tired," she said.
"Oh, I shall get over that," he replied, carelessly.
"Yes, but it hurts you."