Her companion bends toward her, speaking earnestly, yet she listens with such apparent indifference and almost ennui that if that be coquetry at all it can surely be characterized by no other term than that of Felise--"demure." "I thought that Penn's loves were all ideal ones," the colonel says, trying to speak carelessly as he watches his wife's companion closely. "To judge from his latest volumes of poems, the divinities of his worship are all too ethereal to tread this lower earth." Felise laughs significantly as her companion ceases to speak. "Byron Penn, despite the ethereal creatures of his brain, is not proof against mortal beauty," she says. "Remember, Colonel Carlyle, that angels once looked down from Heaven and loved the women of earth." "He is a graceful waltzer," her companion returns, as the young poet circles the waist of the snow-maiden with one arm and whirls her into the mazes of the giddy, breathless waltz. "Very," says Felise, watching the graceful couple as they float around the room, embodying the very poetry of motion. She is silent a moment, then looks up into her companion's face with a slightly curious expression. "Pardon my question," she says, thoughtfully; "but do you quite approve of _married_ women waltzing with other men than their husbands?" He starts and looks at her sharply. The innocent deference and unconsciousness of her voice and face are perfect. "Since you ask me," he says, slowly, "I may say that upon mature consideration I might think it was not exactly _comme il faut_. Yet I have really never before given a second thought to the subject. It is quite customary, you know, and it seems even more excusable in my wife than other women, since I never waltz myself, and she would be compelled to forego that pleasure entirely unless she shared it with others." "Oh, pray do not think that I have any reference to Bonnibel," exclaimed Felise, hurried and earnestly, "I was speaking altogether in the abstract. Yet I fully agree with you that your wife would be more excusable for many little errors of head and heart than most women. She is scarcely more than a child, and has never had the proper training to fit her for her present sphere. Her uncle was culpably indulgent to her, and hated to force her inclination, which was very adverse to study or application of any kind. Consequently our little Bonnibel, though beautiful as a dream, is little more than an unformed child. She should be in the school-room this minute." Every word is spoken with such a pretty air of excusing and defending the young wife's errors, and condemning her dead uncle as their cause, that Colonel Carlyle is entirely deceived. He did not know that Bonnibel was so neglected and unformed before, but he takes it on trust since Felise is so confident of it, and the thought rankles bitterly in his proud heart. But he passes over the subject in silence and returns to the primal one.