All this time Richard had been going every day to town and coming back by the evening train.  It was pretty tiresome work, and he looked rather pale and worn; but I believe he could not stay away.  I sometimes felt a little sorry when I saw how much he was out of spirits, but I was in such a happy realm myself, it did not depress me long:  in truth, I forgot it when he was not actually before me, and sometimes even then.  “I do not think you are listening to what I say,” he said to me one night as he sat by me in the parlor.  I blushed desperately, and tried to listen better.  Ah! how often it happened after that.  I blush again to think how much I pained him, and how silently he bore it all.

The last days of July were very busy ones in the Wall-street office, and Richard did not give himself a holiday, till one Saturday, much to be remembered, the very last day of the month.  I recall with penitence, the impatient feeling that I had when Richard told me he was going to take the day at home.  I felt intuitively that it would spoil it all for me.  After breakfast, we all played croquet, and then I shut myself into my room with my German books, and selfishly saw no one till dinner.  At dinner I was excited and half frightened, as I always was when Mr. Langenau and Richard were both present, and both watching me; it was impossible to please either.

Something was said about the afternoon, and Richard (who all this time knew nothing of the German class) said to me, evidently afraid of some other engagement being entered on, “I hope you will drive with me, Pauline, at five.  I ordered the horses when I was down at the stables; I think the afternoon is going to be fine.”  It was rather a public way of asking one out of so many to go and take a drive; but in truth, Richard was too honest and straightforward to care who knew what he was in pursuit of, and too sore at heart and too indifferent an actor to conceal it if he had desired.  But the invitation struck me with such consternation.  At five o’clock!  The flower and consummation of the day!  The hour that I had been looking forward to, since seven the day before.  I could not lose it.  I would not go to drive.  I hated Richard.  I hated going to drive.  I grew very brave, and was on the point of saying that I could not go, when I caught Sophie’s eye.  She made me a quick sign, which I dared not disobey.  I blushed crimson, and did not lift my eyes again, but said in a low voice that I would go.  Then my heart seemed to turn to lead, and all the glory and pleasure of the day was gone.  It seemed to me of such vast importance, of such endless duration, this penance that I was to undergo.  O lovers!  Foolish, foolish men and women!  I was like a child balked of its holiday; I wanted to cry—­I longed to get away by myself.  I did not dare to look at any one.

Mr. Langenau excused himself, and left the table before the others went away.  As we were leaving the table, Sophie, passing close by me, said quite low, “I would not say anything about the German class, Pauline.  And it was a great deal better that you should go; you know Richard has not many holidays.”