I believe?" replied she, in a low and constrained voice.
"So I hear," answered Courtenaye: "but, as you are not well enough to go, I do not feel bound to go either. My engagement is at the Haymarket theatre, to witness the fate of a new play by Walter Maynard, whose poems we have so often read together."
"Oh, how I hope it will succeed!" exclaimed she: her sudden feeling of relief giving unusual energy to her words.
"I hope so, indeed!" replied her husband: "but now, Constance, be a good child, and go to bed; for, I forewarn you, I will tell you nothing about it till to-morrow, at the hour
'When lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.'"
He then left her, and Constance held her breath to catch the last sound of his receding steps.
"He is, at least, not gone to Lady Marchmont's," murmured she; but, a moment after, she reproached herself for her joy. What!
