"You are a naughty fairy," said Harold, daring to press Esther's hand a little more closely to him, and drawing her down the eastern steps into the pleasure-ground, as if he were unwilling to give up the conversation. "Confess that you are disgusted with my want of romance."
"I shall not confess to being disgusted. I shall ask you to confess that you are not a romantic figure."
"I am a little too stout."
"For romance—yes. At least you must find security for not getting stouter."
"And I don't look languishing enough?"
"O yes—rather too much so—at a fine cigar."
"And I am not in danger of committing suicide?"
"No; you are a widower."
Harold did not reply immediately to this last thrust of Esther's. She had uttered it with innocent thoughtlessness from the playful suggestions of the moment; but it was a fact that Harold's previous married life had entered strongly into her impressions about him. The presence of Harry made it inevitable. Harold took this allusion of Esther's as an indication that his quality of widower was a point that made against him; and after a brief silence he said, in an altered, more serious tone—
