CHAPTER IV.
“I don’t think you care for Paris,” said Arthur to his wife. They were driving out to the Bois, and the rain was drizzling, and it was not gay. There were fewer quarrels in this dull interval, but perhaps the fact scarcely improved the liveliness, if it slightly added to the happiness of their life.
“No,” she said, with some vivacity; “not at all. It was very nice for a day or two. But now we seem to have got all we wanted, don’t we, Arthur? Another afternoon in the Roo, or in the Palay Royal, just to pick up a few little presents, and I should be quite content to go as soon as you please.”
“You have seen very little, Nancy.”
“Oh, little! I have seen the whole place, all the best shops, and the best streets. I don’t know what more there is to see.”
“People will not talk about the shops and streets,” said Arthur, in his most didactic way; “but about the pictures in the Louvre, and about Notre Dame; and what music you have heard, and what plays you have seen.”
“I am sure mamma will never ask me any such questions,” said Nancy, “and I don’t suppose you are going to take me to see your great friends.”
“That reminds me,” said Arthur, nervously clearing his throat, “of a favour I was going to ask of you. Will you do something—that will be very disagreeable—for me, Nancy, for my sake?”
She looked at him very keenly, examining his face, conscious that this seeming simple prayer meant something more than appeared. “What is it?” she said, with a gleam of suspicion in her eyes.
“You will not promise then? you are cautious, Nancy. I should have pledged myself to do anything and everything for your sake.”