"Don't you think ours is a very romantic life?" "Very romantic? How do you mean?" "Oh, I mean that we are so happy." "Yes, but that is hardly what people call romance. A romantic life is an eventful life, and happy people have no events in their lives. I don't believe that cousin Gerald Lorimer, with all his imagination, could get a one-act play out of our lives. There is no plot to be found in them. To make a novel or a play, there must be intrigue, troubles, misunderstandings, moral storms. There are people who love storms. Some people only love the sea when it is in a fury. Are you fond of storms yourself?" "Oh no," replied Dora; "I have no sea-legs. I love the life that I lead with you--and my enthusiasm for your art deepens my love for you every day." "My darling," said Philip, drawing Dora still nearer to him, and caressing the graceful head that was resting against his knee, "do you know that one of these days I shall be jealous of you, you are making such progress with your painting." "What nonsense! I am learning, so that I may understand you better. To appreciate you thoroughly, my ambition soars no higher than that." Philip looked at his watch, turned towards the door that led to the street, and made a little gesture of impatience, that did not escape Dora. "Philip," said she, "what are you thinking of?" "Why, of you, dear, always you." "No, you were not thinking about me just now. You cannot deceive me," said she coaxingly. "Do you know that, of late, I have observed a little change in you--oh! just a little change." "A change? What a little goose you are!" "Oh, I am not so silly as all that; the fact is you seem absent-minded lately, anxious, irritable even; and, worse than all that, this morning you had forgotten it was the anniversary of our wedding. Now, had you not?" Philip started. "Oh, but I am quite sure of what I am saying. I am certain you had forgotten." "What nonsense! it is all in your imagination, my dear child." "No, it is not," said Dora, with great emphasis; "a woman's intuition is often a safer guide than her eyes." "Your intuition, then, for once is wrong." "Come, come," said Dora tenderly, "tell me, have you any troubles, any little worry?" "No, dear, none," said Philip, frowning a little. "Let me get on with my work, and don't ask silly questions." "Oh, very well," said Dora, pouting. She rose, and went away from the easel a few steps; but noticing that Philip was looking at her, as if to ask her forgiveness for having been a trifle abrupt, she turned her steps towards him, and, laying her head on his shoulder, burst into tears; then looking him in the face, with eyes that were smiling through the tears, she cried, "Oh, do tell me what ails you." "What a child you are, dearest! I assure you, there is nothing the matter." "I know better."