I pause a moment before I attempt the portraiture of the young wife of Mundus.  Her shadow has indeed flitted once before across these pages (see Chapter Four of the Novel), but the dim outlines of a shadow may be traced by a hand that is powerless to paint the living, breathing figure.  The boudoir where she sat was draped with the fairest pinks of the Saxony loom, and the carpet confessed an original Axminster workmanship.  With this one, the pattern was created and extinguished, and, though it cost Mundus five thousand dollars, he drew his check for the bill with a smile.  The sofas and chairs were of hand-embroidered velvet, representing the delicate adventures of Wilhelm Meister; and the paintings that profusely lined the walls gave form to the warmest scenes of Farquahar’s ‘gayest’ comedies.  Bella herself sat near a window, negligently posed, reading the ‘Journal of a Summer in the Country,’ over which she had now hung for three hours in speechless admiration, breakfastless, and with her slipper-ribbons not yet tied.  ’I must see what becomes of Wigwag,’ she replied to Mundus, as he called through the door that he was eating all the eggs.  ‘Thank Heaven,’ she finally exclaimed, as he went down into the smoking room, ’that’s the last of him to-day; and now I shall have this delicious book all to myself, and all myself to this delicious book.’

‘That’s very prettily turned now,’ said a silvery voice; ’nothing could have been prettier,—­but you’—­

‘Oh, you naughty man, is that you already?’ said Bella; ’didn’t you meet the Bear as you came in?’

‘He is in the front basement, sucking his paws,’ replied Roseton, for it was indeed he, ‘and he is trying to do a stupider thing, if possible.’

‘What’s that?’ asked the fair Bella.  ’Now don’t tire me with any of your nonsense.’

‘To read himself,’ answered Roseton.

‘You alarm me,’ exclaimed she; ’it can’t be possible that the servants have let him have a looking-glass, contrary to my express instructions!’

‘No, no,’ said the master of Pont-Noir, ’he is at work over the World.’

‘The World?’ said Bella, inquiringly.  ‘Pray don’t give me a headache.’

Roseton leaned over her shoulder, and placed in her lap a miniature Andrews and Stoddard’s Lexicon, open at the eight hundredth page.  ’You take?’ he said:  ‘Mundus, the World.’

‘Ah, Percy,’ sighed Bella, ’why do you thus unnecessarily fatigue me?  Have I not often told you that, faultless as you are in every other department of life, and how I love to dwell upon this fact, still, still, my Percy, your puns, or rather your attempts, are worse than those of a Yale College freshman?  You are cruel, indeed you are, thus to disappoint and wound me.  Be persuaded by me, and never try again.’

Roseton paused, irresolute—­it was a great struggle; but what will not one do for the woman one loves?  ‘I promise,’ said he, at last; and, bending over her, laid a kiss—­like an egg—­upon her brow.  ’This will forever bind me.’