She stretched out her hand to him with a smile, and he pressed it fondly
to his lips. There were twinkling jewels upon the slender fingers; for
the prettiest shop in Brighton--the brightest shop in Brighton--had been
ransacked that morning by the fond, frivolous, happy husband, as pleased
to bedeck his wife as a child to dress her last new doll.
"How can I ever be worthy of so much affection, Gustave!" she exclaimed,
as he kissed the twinkling fingers.
And it did indeed seem to her that for this free gift of love she could
never render a sufficient recompense.
"Thou wilt make Cotenoir a home," he said; "thou knowest not how I have
sighed for a home. This room, with the lamplight shining on thy face, and
thy white hands moving about the teacups, and thy sweet smile, which
greets me every now and then when thou lookest by here,--it is more of
home than I have ever known since I left Beaubocage, that modest dwelling
where lived those two angels of kindness, my aunt and my grandmother."
In one of those long pleasant drives to a distant village nestling under
the lee of a steep hill, the husband and wife had much serious talk about
the position of the former with reference to the Haygarth estate. The
result of that conversation was shown in a letter which Charlotte
Hawkehurst received the next day from her friend Diana Lenoble.
"Albion Hotel, Brighton.
Pages:
519
520
521
522
523
524
525
526
527
528
529
530
531
532
533
534
535
536
537
538
539
540
541
542
543