"What does it matter?" said Derrice, coldly. "I shall probably soon be leaving here," and she lowered her eyes, for a sudden mist of tears made her husband's figure a blur, except for the splash of light on the glasses of his spectacles.
"You do not feel yourself growing more contented?" he asked.
"Contented, no," she cried, stretching out her arms; "I am homesick,—homesick for my father. Oh, I wish he would come. I shall beg him to do so."
"My poor child," said Justin, softly, "what can I do for you?"
"You cannot do anything," she said, vehemently. "You should not have married me—" and she dashed away the tears from her eyes in order to see his shocked face.
But he was not shocked. He seemed rather to be thoughtfully following up the ramifications of some problem connected with her statement.
"Derrice," he said, abruptly rising and putting a hand on her shoulder, "you are nervous, I should not allow you to talk. Good night, my dear child."
"Good night," she said, twitching her smooth, sloping shoulder away from his hand, but without making any further effort to leave him.
His calm features became suffused with compassion. "Do you know that I came home to-day with a carriage to give my dear dolly a drive?"
"No; did you?" and her face brightened.