“You mean about my walking up?” he says readily, and without the slightest trace of guilty consciousness, indeed with a distinct and open look of pleasure; “but, my darling, how could I tell how long she would keep me? poor little woman!” (beginning to laugh and to put back the hair from his tanned forehead).  “I am afraid I did not bless her when I saw her standing at her gate!  I had half a mind to ask her whether another time would not do as well, but she looked so eager to hear about her husband—­you know I have been seeing him at St. Thomas—­such a wistful little face—­and I knew that she could not keep me more than ten minutes; and, altogether when I thought of her loneliness and my own luck—­”

He breaks off.

“Are you so sure she is lonely?” I say, with an innocent air of asking for information, and still working hard at the button; “are people always lonely when their husbands are away?”

He looks at me strangely for a moment; then, “Of course she is lonely, poor little thing!” he says, warmly; “how could she help it?”

A slight pause.

“Most men,” say I, jealously, “would not have thought it a hardship to walk up and down between the laurustinus with Mrs. Zephine, I can tell you!”

“Would not they?” he answers, indifferently.  “I dare say not! she always was a good little thing!”

“Excellent!” reply I, with a nasty dryness, “bland, passionate, and deeply religious!”

Again he looks at me in surprise—­a surprise which, after a moment’s reflection, melts and brightens into an expression of pleasure.

“Did you care so much about my coming that ten minutes seemed to make a difference?” he asks, in an eager voice.  “Is it possible that you were in a hurry for me?”

Why cannot I speak truth, and say yes?  Why does an objectlessly lying devil make its inopportune entry into me?  Through some misplaced and crooked false shame I answer, “Not at all! not at all! of course a few minutes one way or the other could not make much difference; I was only puzzled to know what had become of you?”

He looks a shade disappointed, and for a moment we are both silent.  We have sat down side by side on the sofa.  Vick is standing on her hinder legs, with her forepaws rested on Roger’s knee.  Her tail is wagging with the strong and untiring regularity of a pendulum, and a smirk of welcome and recognition is on her face.  Roger’s arm is round me, and we are holding each other’s hands, but we are no longer in heaven.  I could not tell you why but we are not.  Some stupid constraint—­quite of earth—­ has fallen upon me.  Where are all those most tender words, those profuse endearments with which I meant to have greeted him?

“And so it is actually true!” he says, with a long-drawn sigh of relief; his eyes wandering round the room, and taking in all the familiar objects; “there is no mistake about it!  I am actually holding your real live hand” (turning it gently about and softly considering the long slight fingers and pink palm)—­“in mine!  Ah! my dear, how often, how often I have held it so in my dreams!  Have you ever” (speaking with a sort of doubtfulness and uncertain hope)—­“have you ever—­no, I dare say not—­so held mine?”