He looked just like a great lank
tired child.
"Are you one of my wife's friends?" he asked.
"I don't suppose I am," she answered gently; "but I like her, all the
same. Indeed, I like her very much. And I think her beautiful!"
"Ah, she is beautiful!" he said eagerly. "Doesn't she look splendid in
her furs? By Jove, you are right! She is a beautiful woman. I am proud
of her!"
Then the smile faded from his face.
"Beautiful," he said half to himself, "but hard."
"Come now," said Bernardine; "you are surrounded with books and
newspapers. What shall I read to you?"
"No one reads what I want," he answered peevishly. "My tastes are not
their tastes. I don't suppose you would care to read what I want to
hear!"
"Well," she said cheerily, "try me. Make your choice."
"Very well, the _Sporting and Dramatic_," he said. "Read every word of
that. And about that theatrical divorce case. And every word of that
too. Don't you skip, and cheat me."
She laughed and settled herself down to amuse him. And he listened
contentedly.
"That is something like literature," he said once or twice. "I can
understand papers of that sort going like wild-fire.
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