Her blue eyes flashed,—but she made no reply.
“You object to any mention of the high horse?” he said, and his voice had a kind tone that was almost irresistible. Turning her head towards him she could not help smiling,—he had one of his attractive moods on, and his features, always intellectual, were softened and made almost good-looking by an expression of tender solicitude seldom seen upon them.
“I object to nothing you wish to say,” she answered, gently.
“How charming of you! Ah!” and he sighed. “If that were always the case—if it were only true!”
He broke off. His heart was not given to inordinate fluttering, but he felt it distinctly fluttering just then. He waited a couple of minutes to recover himself. She had resumed her swift sewing, and her little gold thimble flashed to and fro like a tiny star. The logs in the bright fire crackled and sparkled,—one of them falling into a brilliant flame. He straightened himself in his chair, and, as it were, pulled himself together.
“Returning to the subject of your father’s important work,” he said, slowly, “I think it will soon be finished.”
“Really!” she exclaimed. “How glad I shall be!”
“Will you? Yes—I suppose you will! But—I shall be sorry!”
She paused in her sewing and looked at him kindly.
“It’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “For I’m sure you must have been tired of it often! And tired of us, too! We must seem so monotonous to a clever man like you!”