‘fen-sucked fogs,’

and such damp, shivery places, he is all right, but when he sings of ‘love’s light wings,’ and all that nonsense, he is impeded; now open to him ’Italian, the language of angels’—­you know the old rhyme—­and see what a chance he has among the “liquid l’s and bell-voiced m’s and crushed tz’s.”  To-night you will hear Desdemona call Othello ’Il mio marito,’ in a way that will start the tears.  What are the stiff English words to that?  ‘My husband!’ Husband is a very uneuphonious name, I think.”

Norman Mann smiled.  “Another cup of coffee, if you please—­not quite as sweet as the last,” and he passed his cup.  “I believe there is always a charm in a novel word that has not been commonized by the crowd.  ‘Dear’ means very little to us nowadays, because every school girl is every other school girl’s ‘dear,’ and elderly ladies ‘my dear’ the world at large, in a pretty and benevolent way.  So with the words ‘husband’ and ‘wife’; we hear them every day in commonest speech—­’the coachman and his wife,’ or ’Sally Jones’s husband,’—­but I take it this is when we stand outside.  That wonderful little possessive pronoun my has a great, thrilling power.  ‘My husband’ will be as fine to your ears as ’il mio marito,’ which has, after all, a slippery, uncertain sound; and as for ’my wife’—­”

At that moment the coffee cup, which was on its way back, had reached the middle of the table, where by right it should have been met and guided by the steadier, masculine hand; Norman’s hand was there in readiness, but instead of gently removing the cup from Mae’s clasp, it folded itself involuntarily about the white, round wrist, as he paused on these last words.  Was it the little possessive pronoun that sent the sudden thrill through the unexpecting wrist?  At any rate it trembled; the cup, the saucer, the coffee, the spoon, followed a well known precedent, and “went to pieces all at once;” “all at once and nothing first just as bubbles do when they burst.”  And so alas! did the conversation, and that burst a beautiful bubble Norman had just blown.

Damages were barely repaired when Eric entered the breakfast room with a petulant sort of face and flung himself into a chair.  “My! what a head I have on me this morning,” he groaned.  “Soda water would be worth all the coffee in the world, Mae; I’ll take it black, if you please.  How cosy you two look.  I always take too much of every thing at a party, from flirtation to—­O, Mae, you needn’t look so sad.  I’m not the one in disgrace now.  Mrs. Jerrold, Edith and Albert are just piping mad at you, and as for Mann, here,—­by the way,” and Eric rubbed his forehead, as if trying to sharpen up a still sleepy memory, “I suppose you two have had it out by this time.  Norman sat up till ever so late to talk you over with me, Mae.  Do thank him for me; I am under the impression that I didn’t do so last night.”

Mae tapped her fourth finger, on which a small ring glistened, sharply against the cream jug.  “If I were every body’s pet lamb or black sheep, I couldn’t have more shepherd’s crooks about me.  Have you joined the laudable band, Mr. Mann, and am I requested to thank you for that?”