A bright-eyed, feathered poet he was, and an
exceeding favorite with his fair mistress, who occasionally leaned back
in her low chair to look at him and murmur an encouraging "Sweet,
sweet!" which caused the speckled plumage on his plump breast to ruffle
up with suppressed emotion and gratitude.
Philip was pretending to read the _Times_, but the huge, self-important
printed sheet had not the faintest interest for him,--his eyes wandered
over the top of its columns to the golden gleam of his wife's hair,
brightened just then by the sunlight streaming through the window,--and
finally he threw it down beside him with a laugh.
"There's no news," he declared. "There never _is_ any news!"
Thelma smiled, and her deep-blue eyes sparkled.
"No?" she half inquired--then taking her husband's cup from his hand to
re-fill it with coffee, she added, "but I think you do not give yourself
time to find the news, Philip. You will never read the papers more than
five minutes."
"My dear girl," said Philip gaily, "I am more conscientious than you
are, at any rate, for you never read them at all!"
"Ah, but you must remember," she returned gravely, "that is because I do
not understand them! I am not clever.
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