If I had been his wife, I should have done as I always do now in such a case:  walked up to him, settled the sofa-cushion, and said,—­“Here, now! lie down, and don’t speak a word for two hours.  Meantime I will tell you who has been here, and everything.”  Thus I should rest and divert him by idle chatter, bathing his tired brain with good Cologne; and if, in the middle of my best story and funniest joke, he fairly dropped off to sleep, I should just fan him softly, keep the flies away, say in my heart, “Bless him! there he goes! hands couldn’t mend him!”—­and then look at him with as much more pride and satisfaction than, at any other common wide-awake face as it is possible to conceive.

However, not being married, and having a whole week more to be silly in, I was both silly and suspicious.  This was partly his fault.  He was reserved, naturally and habitually; and as he didn’t tell me he was tired and soul-weary, I never thought of that.  Instead, as he sat on the sofa, I took a long string of knitting-work and seated myself across the room,—­partly so that he might come to me, where there was a good seat.  Then, as he did not cross the room, but still sat quietly on the sofa, I began to wonder and suspect.  Did he work too hard?  Did he dread undertaking matrimony?  Did he wish he could get off?  Why did he not come and speak to me?  What had I done?  Nothing!  Nothing!

Here Laura came in to say she was going to Mrs. Harris’s to get the newest news about sleeves.  Mrs. Harris for sleeves; Mrs. Gore for bonnets; and for housekeeping, recipes, and all that, who but Mrs. Parker, who knew that, and a hundred other things?  Many-sided are we all:  talking sentiment with this one, housekeeping with that, and to a third saying what wild horses would not tear from us to the two first!

Laura went.  And presently he said, wearily, but I thought drearily,—­

“Delphine, are you all ready to be married?”

The blood flushed from my heart to my forehead and back again.  So, then, he thought I was ready and waiting to drop like a ripe plum into his mouth, without his asking me!  Am I ready, indeed?  And suppose I am not?  Perhaps I, too, may have my misgivings.  A woman’s place is not a sinecure.  Troubles, annoyances, as the sparks fly upward!  Buttons to begin with, and everything to end with!  What did Mrs. Hemans say, poor woman?

  “Her lot is on you! silent tears to weep,
  And patient smiles to wear through suffering’s hour,
  And sumless riches from affection’s deep
  To pour on”—­something—­“a wasted shower!”

Yes, wasted, indeed!  I hadn’t answered a word to his question.

“It seems warm in this room,” said he again, languidly; “shall we walk on the piazza?”

“I think not,” I answered, curtly; “I am not warm.”

Even that, did not bring him to me.  He still leaned his head on his hand for a minute or two, and then rose from the sofa and sat by the window, looking at the western sky, where the sun had long gone down.  I could see his profile against the outer light, however, and it did not look placid.  His brow was knit and mouth compressed.  So, then, it was all very likely!