He paused,—thinking. There had been a time in his life—long ago, when he was very young—when heart and sentiment had very nearly overthrown reason in his own case—and sometimes he was inclined to regret that such overthrow had been averted.
"For the moment it is perhaps worth everything else!" he mused—"But—for the moment only! The ecstasy does not last."
His cigar had gone out again, and he re-lit it. The clock on the mantelpiece struck twelve with a silvery clang, and almost at the same instant he heard the rustle of a silk gown and a light footstep,—the door opened, and his wife appeared.
"Are you busy?" she enquired—"May I come in?"
He rose, with the stately old-fashioned courtesy habitual to him.
"By all means come in!" he said—"You have returned early?"
"Yes." She loosened her rich evening cloak, lined with ermine, and let it fall on the back of the chair in which she seated herself—"It was a boresome affair,—there were recitations and music which I hate—so I came away. You are reading?"
"Not now"—and he closed the volume on the table beside him—"But I
HAVE been reading—that amazing book by the young girl we met at the
Deanshires' last night—Ena Armitage. It's really a fine piece of work."
She was silent.
"You didn't take to her, I'm afraid?" he went on—"Yet she seemed a charming, modest little person. Perhaps she was not quite what you expected?"