I have more than once, at a party, caught her throwing me little glances that seemed to say: “Have patience, darling; Parker is just lighting us a lovely little fire; in a few moments we shall be all alone, and I will soon drive that frown from your brow.”
One evening we came home and went to the reposoir as usual, my wife radiant and lovely enough to turn the head of a hermit, I a little sulky. I took off her pelisse, laid it carefully on the sofa, and threw myself dreamily into one of the chairs. My wife took possession of the other, gave me a wicked little glance, and unceremoniously burst out laughing in my face.
“I am sure you are jealous. Don’t tell me you are not,” she added, placing five glowing perfumed fingers on my lips.
——“Well, yes, I am; it was not nice of you to waltz with that great fop of a....”
——“Now don’t talk about that; I was punished enough for it. I never saw such an awkward fellow.”
——“It served you right.”
——“Come, don’t scold me. I had it in my head—I don’t know why—that it was to be a polka. You know very well that I don’t care to waltz with anybody but you. First of all, because you waltz beautifully, and then, with you there is no danger.”
——“There is no danger? What do you mean?”
——“Did I say that?”
——“You did.”