"Somehow, Margaret," he said, "you remind me of those women who enjoy the Indian festival of the funeral pile. I have seen the thing done; you have something of the sort in your mind; be sure to immolate yourself handsomely. Women are the deuse."
"Finish your almonds, John," I said, "and go away; we must dress."
He put his hand on my arm, and whispered,—
"Smother that light in your eyes, my girl; it is dangerous. And you have lived under your mother's eye all your life! You see what I have done,"—indicating Leonora with his eyebrows,—"taken a baby on my hands."
"John, John!" I inwardly ejaculated, "you are an idiot."
"She shall never suffer what you suffer; she shall have the benefit of the experience which other women have given me."
"Very likely," I answered; "I know we often serve you as pioneers merely."
He gave a sad nod, and I closed the door upon him.
"Put these pins into my hair, Leonora, and tell me, how do you like my new dress?"
"Paris!" she cried.