He would pay her in return twice as many days
of gladness to make up for the pain she had so cheerfully borne.
What could he do to thank her?--how discharge the obligation?
Every hour he would tell her, and in different ways--by his
tenderness, by his obedience to her slightest wish, anticipating
her every want--how much he appreciated her unselfishness, and how
much better, if that were possible, he loved her for her
sacrifice. Nor was there, when the day came, any limit to his
devotion or to her enjoyment. There were rides over the hills in
the soft September mornings--Indian summer in its most dreamy and
summery state; there were theatre parties of two and no more; when
they sat in the third row in the balcony, where it was cheaper,
and where, too, they wouldn't have to speak to anybody else. There
were teas in Washington Square, where nobody but themselves and
their hostess were present, as well as other unexpected outings,
in which all the rest of the world was forgotten.
The house, too, was all their own.
Pages:
553
554
555
556
557
558
559
560
561
562
563
564
565
566
567
568
569
570
571
572
573
574
575
576
577