CHAPTER X
PRISCILLA wandered aimlessly between the close-cut hedges of her garden; idly trailed her hand in the fountain where Aphrodite disported herself; took up her book and sat for a few moments on the terrace; gazed at the blue Italian sky, and sighed. "Oh, dear, I wish he would get through with it!"
"It" was Anthony's book, at which he was working heart and soul, early and late; and it was the only cloud in the clear sky of Priscilla's happiness. She called the book her rival, and sometimes openly rebelled at the time her husband spent with it and away from her. But he was so filled with it, and he made up to her for his neglect in so many gentle ways, that she bore it as patiently as possible even though the days were long and lonely.
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