"Oh, I didn't mean to say that he preserves a dead-level calm. I should hate him if he did. He is rather irritable in small ways. You can excite him to frenzy--comparatively speaking--by moving the matches from his dressing-room, or mislaying his sponge or nail scissors; but then it is the servants who get blamed--never me; and in big things he is great! If he became paralysed to-morrow, or lost every penny he possessed, or if!"--Jean's face sobered--"_died_, he might suffer tortures, but he would not speak one word of rebellion, and he would keep his interest in other people, and be truly, unfeignedly, ungrudgingly glad that they were so much more fortunate than himself. Oh, he is a marvel! I adore him. I would give worlds to be like him. I am bursting with pride at being the woman he has chosen out of all the world; but he spoils me so, that it's becoming second nature to want all my own way, so I keep falling farther and farther behind." "Robert wouldn't admit that! No doubt he thinks himself the laggard, and you just such another paragon as you have described." Jean pursed her lips in a whimsical grimace. "No! The droll part of it is, he does _not_. He doesn't understand me one bit; I'm a continual enigma to him. Half the time he is puzzled out of his wits, and the other half he is--_shocked_. Such eyes! You should see them staring at me, growing bigger and bigger, when I let myself go, and grumble or rage. He disapproves, but he makes excuses, because I am I, and he loves me, and wouldn't change me for the greatest paragon alive." She was silent, smiling mischievously to herself for several minutes, then burst out suddenly: