How the minutes drag—the ugly, empty, dull minutes. The hands of the clock are surely standing still, for I am sure that it is hours that Paul and I have been sitting apart, with this leaden silence between us. I was very rude to him just now, and when he held out his hand to me and said, "Nell, did you mean what you said just now?" why did I not jump out of my chair and say, "No, no, no!" instead of answering, "Yes, certainly," in the confident expectation that he would cross over to me the very next moment and fetch me? But he is sitting in his chair, and I am in mine; and if he will not come to me, or I swallow my pride and go to him, shall we sit on and on in this old school-room till Doomsday? I shut my eyes and count sixty seconds at a smart gallop, then sixty more; then I unlatch one eye cautiously to see what he is doing.
The newspaper hangs from his hand; he is staring into the fire rather wearily. Suddenly he looks full at me, but as my one open optic is more suggestive of mirthful winking than penitence, he looks away again. It is full a minute before I take another peep and discover that he is, to all appearance, following my example, and courting slumber—or pretending to. I had no idea Paul was so sulky! He looks very handsome with his head lying back upon the cushion, and I am just thinking so, when he opens his eyes and looks at me as I hastily shut mine. After all, it is very like a game of bo-peep, and if it goes on much longer I shall burst out laughing, which would be dreadful; for how could I dictate terms of surrender in the midst of breathless giggles?
I wonder what will bring him into a state of repentance quickest—reproaches? It would be very infra dig to speak to him. Hysterics? I don't know the way, and he hates them. Faint away? He would not know when I began unless I made a series of horrible faces; and he might consider them purely vicious, and
