When he went after Elizabeth to sign that paper she was sewing together the leaves of Hilary’s Latin grammar, and wishing she could buy some new books that the boy needed--for she taught him herself, under the womanly pretense that they might thereby save up money for his university expenses. But she knew in her heart of hearts that no money was saved or thought of being saved. Only her pride was saved by that subterfuge. The drawing-room at Newington where she sat was very unlike the splendid drawing-rooms at Deerchase or the gaudy show-rooms at Belfield. It was large, plain, and old-fashioned. The mahogany furniture was scanty, and the ornaments consisted of those daubs of family portraits which all Virginians possess. It was a gloomy afternoon early in October, and neither the room nor anything in it looked cheerful. Blair came in whistling, and stated the case to Elizabeth. As she had brought him no fortune, it seemed ungracious in her to refuse him that which was his own, but she thought of Hilary, and her heart sank. Nevertheless, she signed the paper with the quill pen that Blair cut for her with his penknife. When asking her to make the sacrifice for him he did not insult her by any endearments; there were certain fine points of delicacy about him which well pleased her woman’s soul. He profoundly respected the love between them, and would have scorned to use it directly as a means of wheedling anything out of her. But when her name was signed, he tipped her chin up and kissed her with ineffable tenderness. “By heaven, my girl,” he said, “you deserve a better husband than I have ever made you! But you could never find one that loves you half as much.” This gave Elizabeth a chance to air a grievance which she had been cherishing ever since the dinner at Belfield. Mrs. Blair was an uncommonly level-headed woman, and if any one had suggested a doubt of her husband to her, nothing could have exceeded her righteous resentment towards the suggestor. But there never had been a time in all their married life that Mrs. Blair had not fancied Blair’s admiration fixed upon some girl in the county, who nine times out of ten bored him to death, and Mrs. Blair was always ready with a few tears and a reproach or two on the subject of these imaginary injuries. “Yes,” she said, withdrawing with an offended air from his encircling arm, “you can say these things to me now, but ever since that night at Belfield, when you never took your eyes off Sylvia Shapleigh, you have been thinking a great deal too much about her.” “Elizabeth,” said Blair solemnly, “you are a fool,” and then he suddenly burst out laughing--a genuine laugh, inspired by the perfect absurdity of the thing. “And you won’t deny it?” asked Elizabeth, trying feebly to maintain her position.