“Nonsense, Fanny, you are joking!” But she took off the beautiful hat, and sat arranging and re-arranging the feathers, though in a manner which would have been far from satisfactory to the artiste, who had hit off that particular disposition of feathers, in a fortunate moment of inspiration. Instinct had served Fanny on this occasion, as well as a deeper knowledge of the world; for vanity and affection can both take alarm at the idea of losing the devotion they have been accustomed to. She now remained silent, simply because she did not know what she had best say; but her silence had the effect of piquing Lady Delaford. After a pause of several minutes, Isabella added: “Lady B—— and Mrs. Clairville tell me they never saw any husband so devoted as mine; they wish I would impart my secret, that they might profit by it.” “They mean he is kind, and lets you have your own way; that he is the least selfish of human beings: but you must know, and feel, that he is not the contented, cheerful person, he once was; that his countenance does not brighten when he sees you, as it once did; that he is silent, abstracted. You cannot be happy, Isabella, and see your husband—and such a husband!—gradually weaning himself from your society, his confidence lessening, his affections cooling? Did I say he was indifferent? No, not indifferent! But he is hurt—wounded! he is shutting up his heart from you! Oh, Isabella! and can you let such a heart close itself to you? you, who might have all the treasures of that noble mind, that manly understanding, that warm generous soul, poured out at your feet—can you throw away such happiness?—you, who might be the happiest woman in the whole world!” Her voice faltered—a tear trembled in her eye—she dared not trust herself to speak another word. Isabella was struck by Fanny’s manner, though she jestingly replied: “One would think I was the worst wife in the world! Now, I could name you a dozen, much worse, among our most intimate acquaintances.” “But, Isabella, are you satisfied with not being a bad wife? Don’t you wish to be a good one?” “Well, I do not see what harm I do. I am never cross; I never worry him; I do not run in debt; and I am very civil to all his friends, whenever he asks them to dinner, however great bores they may be: and it is not every wife who can say as much for herself!” “But, Isabella, of what comfort are you to him? If he has any annoyance, does he find you ready to sympathise with him? If he has any joy, are you there to share it with him? When do you communicate your thoughts, opinions, pleasures, pains, to each other? You do order dinner for him; but really I cannot see what other advantage he derives from having a house, a home, a wife, _une maison montée_.” “Well, I see what you are driving at, all this time; I will make breakfast for him to-morrow morning—that will be quite right and wife-like.”