If that be true then Bonnibel Carlyle bears a sad and weary soul within her breast.
The white face looks very spirituelle in the soft, mystical light, and the delicate lips are set in a line of pain.
No man likes to see his wife unhappy. It is a reflection upon himself. It is his first duty to secure her happiness. Colonel Carlyle is nettled, and says, half querulously:
"I am sorry to see you ennuyed where everything seems conspiring to promote your happiness. Can I do nothing to further that end?"
Her large eyes look up at him a moment in grave surprise at his fretful tone. Then she says to herself in apology for him:
"He is old, and I have heard that old people become irritated very easily."
"Pray do not trouble yourself over my thoughtless words, sir," she says, aloud. "I am tired—that is all. Perhaps I have danced too much."
"It was of that subject I wished to speak with you when I brought you out here," he answers, abruptly. "Are you very fond of the waltz, Bonnibel?"
"I like it quite well;" this after a moment's study. "There is something dreamy, intoxicating, almost delightful in the music and the motion."
A spasm of jealousy contracts his heart. He speaks quickly and with a labored breath.