I am not progressing; I feel this, and pause for a moment. "You are dressed for dinner," I remark, presently "So early?" "Not to very early; It is half-past six." "Indeed! how the time has flown I Well, let me add this to your appearance to make you perfect." I detach a little red rose-bud from the bosom of my dress, and place it with lingering carefulness in his coat. I believe as I do it he imagines I have developed the crowning phase of my malady, by going mad. "'Duke," with perfect unconcern, and with my head a little on one side to mark the effect made by my rose--"'Duke, don't you think it is time now I should give up my invalid habits, and learn to change my dress every evening like a civilized being?" "I think you would be very foolish, Phyllis, to try any changes just yet." "But don't you think me much better and stronger in every way?" "Very much better. Your face has gained its old color, and your arms have regained the pretty soft roundness they had when you were--that is--before we were married." I pull up the loose sleeve of my dress and look with some satisfaction upon the "pretty soft roundness." My old weakness for compliments is strong upon me. "Why did you not finish your sentence?" I ask, slyly: "you were going to say when I was a _girl_." "Because you look such a girl still--such a mere child, indeed--that I thought it would sound absurd." "I am glad of that. I would wish to be young and fresh always. "There was a time," with a faint smile, "when you longed with equal vigor to be old and worldly-wise." "Ah, yes! what a goose I was then! But really, though, I am growing horribly fat. My hands, even--see how plump they are." I lay five slight little fingers in his, confidingly: I can see how he reddens at my touch. He holds them softly, and turns them over to see the pink palm at the other side, and then turns them back again, but he does not speak: very slowly, but with determination, he lets them go. "No fear of my wedding-ring coming off now," I say, cheerfully, though somewhat disconcerted at the failure of my last little ruse; "not even when I wash my hands does it stir. I won't be able to get rid of it in a hurry." "That seems rather a pity, does it not?" remarks he, bitterly. "A pity? Why, I would never forgive myself if I lost it." "Would you have nothing in the past altered, Phyllis?" he asks, suddenly, and curiously, turning for the first time to confront me. "Some things--yes. But not my wedding-ring, certainly." "Good little Phyllis," murmurs he, somewhat sadly, "your recovered health has restored to you your good-nature." "It was not good-nature," I protest, eagerly, feeling strangely inclined to cry. "I said it because I meant it. But come," hastily, fearing I have said too much, "dinner must be ready: we had better go downstairs." Marmaduke leaves the window, and moves toward the door, allowing me to follow.