The dignified head of the Parisian school bows in assent, and stands awaiting her pupil's pleasure. The latter rises slowly, folds her music together, restores it to the proper place and turns to leave the music-room.
"You will wish to make some changes in your dress, of course," the lady superior blandly asserts.
Madam Carlyle gives a glance downward at her dress of dark blue cashmere. It is made with almost nun-like simplicity, and fits her rounded, graceful form to perfection. The neck and sleeves are finished with frills and fine lace, and there is not an ornament about her except the rings on her tapering fingers. She does not need ornament. She is rarely, peerlessly beautiful with her fair flower-face and luxuriant crown of golden hair.
"It is not necessary," she answers. "Colonel Carlyle is perhaps impatient."
There is a delicate-veiled sarcasm in the words barely perceptible to the trained hearing of the listener. With that simple speech she turns and glides from the room, leaving the lady superior gazing after her in some surprise.
"They say that we in France make mariages de convenance," she murmurs in French (which we will spare our readers); "but surely the Americans must do likewise. That old man and that fair young girl—surely it is the union of winter and summer. After two years' absence she goes to him as coolly as an iceberg."
Meanwhile Mrs. Carlyle has glided down the long hall, opened the door of the reception-room with a steady hand, and stepped across the threshold.
"Bonnibel!" exclaims a voice, trembling with rapture and emotion—"my darling wife!"
His arms are about her, his lips touch hers.
After a moment she gently disengages herself and looks up in his face.