was comely and healthy and normal: his delight, when he was tired of every sort of ailment; his luxury, which already had given him two pretty children. . . . People were skating in front of her, behind her, like the pair of them; and she was proud that she was skating with her husband; she would not let him go; he was hers; he was hers. . . .
It was fortunate that it had begun to freeze. They had had three fine days and this was the fourth; and already—alas!—a touch of thaw seemed to slacken the crystal-clear firmness of the sky which had been so transparent at first. But still the ice was in no way impaired; a trip was planned and Mathilde felt sure that Addie would come. And great was her disappointment when he said:
"Not to-day, Tilly. I must go to my patients this morning."
"You managed with the afternoon yesterday."
"I can't wait so long this time: there's an old woman who expects me. And Marietje isn't so well to-day: Mary, I mean, as Mamma calls her."
"Then I sha'n't go either," she said, crossly.
"Why shouldn't you go?" he persisted, gently.
"You enjoy it so."
"With you."
"I can't come this morning."
"Yes, you can . . . to please me."
"No, I can't come this morning, Tilly. But you would please me by going."
"I like skating with you."
His eyes laughed.
"And do you imagine that I don't enjoy it?"
"You don't love me."
"You know better."
"Then come."
"Not this morning."
