THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
you has bound them in spell.”
“But I can laugh, though I love you, I do not understand.” And she wondered. He took her hand in his and stroked it gently, wishing it were possible to smile. Some day, perhaps, she would tire of this monotonous gravity, this rigid sweetness. It was not strange that she should long for a little facile expression. They sat silently.
“Jenny, what is it?” he whispered suddenly. For Jenny, with wide-open eyes, was gazing over his head, across the lawn, “Why do you look frightened?”
“There is a strange woman smiling at me across the palings,” she said. “I do not know her.”
Her husband’s heart sank. Somehow, he dared not turn his head to the intruder. He dreaded who she might be.
“She is nodding to me,” said Jenny. “I think she is foreign, for she has an evil face.”
“Do not notice her,” he whispered. “Does she look evil?”
“Very evil and very dark. She has a pink parasol. Her teeth are like ivory.”
“Do not notice her. Think! It is the mensiversary of our wedding, dear!”
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