"Perhaps you will call me prudish," she says, "or perhaps I may be actuated by the more ignoble passion of jealousy; but I have always felt that were I a man it would be insupportable shame and agony for me to see my wife, whom I loved and revered as a being little lower than an angel, whirled about a common ball-room in the arms of another, while the gaping public nodded and winked."
She saw a look of shame and pain cross his face as his eyes followed the white figure floating round the room in the clasp of Byron Penn's arms.
"I suppose there are not many women who feel as strongly on that subject as you do," he says, slowly.
"Oh, dear, no, nor men either, or they would not permit their wives such license," is the quick reply.
The waltz-music ceases with a bewildering crash of melody, and some one comes up and claims Felise for the next german. She floats away airily as a rose-colored cloud on her partner's arm, and leaves her victim alone. He stands there quite silently a little, seeming lost in troubled thought, then goes to seek his wife.
He finds her the center of an admiring circle, the young poet, Byron Penn, conspicuous among them.
With a slight apology to his friends he offers his arm and leads her away from the throng out to the long moonlighted piazzas.
"Shall I find you a seat or will you promenade?" he inquires politely.
"Oh! promenade, by all means," she answers a little constrainedly.