"I think you are two foolish children," said Annie Brunel, "who don't spend a peaceable life when you might."
"I say so, too," said Nelly. "Life is not so long, as I have told him, that we can afford to throw it away in quarrels. And yet he will quarrel. Confess that you always do quarrel, Frank. There's only one person in the world who is always good to me; and I do so love him! When the dear old gentleman who made me these boots brought them home, and when I looked at them, I could have thrown my arms round his neck."
"I dare say you could, without looking at the boots," said her lover, with a fierce and terrible sneer.
"I suppose it's a weakness," said Nelly, with philosophic equanimity, "but I confess that I love a pair of beautiful little, bright, neat, soft, close-fitting boots better than any man I ever saw."
She caught up that charming little pair of gleaming boots, and pressed them to her bosom, and folded her hands over them, and then took them and kissed them affectionately before placing them again on the table.
An awful thundercloud dwelt on poor Frank's brow.
"I shall take them to bed with me," said the young lady, with loving eyes still on the small heels and the green satin; "and I'll put them underneath my pillow, and dream of them all the night through."
Mr. Glyn got up. There was a terrible look in his eyes, and a terrible cold harshness in his voice, as he said:
"I am interrupting your work and your conversation, ladies. Good-night, Miss Brunel; good-bye, Miss Featherstone."
With which he shook hands and departed—to spend the rest of the evening in walking recklessly along dark suburban roads, wondering whether a few drops of prussic acid might not be his gentlest and truest friend.