As Mrs. White since her marriage rarely opened her mouth, this injunction was an easy one for her to obey, and she again turned her attention to the roses until her husband began to kick out his feet and to exhibit other signs of mental disquiet.
"You're wondering what's the matter with me, Hippy?" he said, at last.
"Yes, Micah."
"I believe I'll tell you," he said; "let me look at you."
Emitting light without heat, his dancing eyes played over her face. "You've nothing to hide from me, Hippy?" he said, at last. "Your heart lies bare before me, just like that," and he made some cabalistic signs on his palm.
"Does it?" she replied, tranquilly, then she asked, with some anxiety, "What is worrying you, Micah?"
"I'll tell you,—I'll cleave my mind open just like a herring. You'll not tell what you see inside,—will you hold my feet while I talk?" and he tentatively laid one slim ankle across her lap.
"Yes, seeing you are troubled with rheumatism, I will," she said, affectionately smoothing his instep.
"Stop that,—you're tickling me," he ordered, then he went on. "Hippy, are you happy?"
"You know I am," she said, phlegmatically.