"
"He is so, and the best of men besides," said Elvira; "but he
cannot act."
"At least he is not a sheer humbug like mine; he can at least
sing."
"You mistake Leon," returned his wife warmly. "He does not even
pretend to sing; he has too fine a taste; he does so for a living.
And, believe me, neither of the men are humbugs. They are people
with a mission - which they cannot carry out."
"Humbug or not," replied the other, "you came very near passing the
night in the fields; and, for my part, I live in terror of
starvation. I should think it was a man's mission to think twice
about his wife. But it appears not. Nothing is their mission but
to play the fool. Oh!" she broke out, "is it not something dreary
to think of that man of mine? If he could only do it, who would
care? But no - not he - no more than I can!"
"Have you any children?" asked Elvira.
"No; but then I may."
"Children change so much," said Elvira, with a sigh.
And just then from the room below there flew up a sudden snapping
chord on the guitar; one followed after another; then the voice of
Leon joined in; and there was an air being played and sung that
stopped the speech of the two women. The wife of the painter stood
like a person transfixed; Elvira, looking into her eyes, could see
all manner of beautiful memories and kind thoughts that were
passing in and out of her soul with every note; it was a piece of
her youth that went before her; a green French plain, the smell of
apple-flowers, the far and shining ringlets of a river, and the
words and presence of love.
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