She sang, quite alone in the
room, but with such a keen delight, such a perfect absorption of enjoyment,
that she never noticed her husband's entrance till he had stood for
some minutes behind her chair. When he touched her she started, then
smiled.
"Oh, it is only you!"
"Only me. Did I trouble you?"
"Oh no; was I not troubling you?"
"How, my dear?"
Christian could not tell. Anyhow she found it impossible to explain,
except that she had fancied he did not care for music.
"Perhaps I do, perhaps I don't. But I care for _you._ Tell me," he sat
down and took her hand, "does not Arthur's 'bird' sometimes feel a little
like a bird in a cage? Do you not wish you lived in the world--in
London, where you could go to concerts and balls, instead of being shut
up in a dull college with an old bookworm like me?"
"Dr. Grey! Papa!"
"Don't look hurt, my darling. But confess; isn't it sometimes so?"
"No! a thousand times no! Who has been putting such things into your
head, for they never would come of themselves? It is wicked--wicked,
and you should not heed them."
The tears burst from her eyes, to her husband's undisguised
astonishment. He appeared so exceedingly grieved that she controlled
herself as soon as she could, for his sake.
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