“She, poor child! Oh no!”
“She does, core of my heart, she does, and is as ignorant of music as I am of tent-stitch.”
“She sings beautifully.”
“Just as birds do, against all the rules, and in defiance of gamut. Therefore, to come to the point, O treasure of my soul! I am going to take her with me for a short time, perhaps to Cheltenham, or Brighton—we shall see.”
“All places with you are the same to me, Alphonso. When shall we go?”
“We shall go to-night; but, terrible as it is to part from you—you—”
“Ah!” interrupted the wife, and covered her face with her hands.
Riccabocca, the wiliest and most relentless of men in his maxims, melted into absolute
uxorial imbecility at the sight of that mute distress. He put his arm round his wife’s waist, with genuine affection, and without a single proverb at his heart—“Carissima, do not grieve so; we shall be back soon, and traveling is expensive; rolling stones gather no moss, and there is so much to see to at home.”
Mrs. Riccabocca gently escaped from her husband’s arms. She withdrew her hands from her face, and brushed away the tears that stood in her eyes.