"It is nothing, dear," replied Harry. "There is only a little
soreness in my throat."

He resumed his seat, and noticed the fragrance of roasted chicken
coming through the parted portieres from the kitchen. Harry was very
fond of roasted chicken. He inhaled that and the delicate perfume of
Ida's garments and hair. He regarded her glowing beauty with
affection which had no taint of sensuality. Harry had more of a
poetic liking for sweet odors and beauty than a sensual one.

Harry Edgham in these days had a more poetic and spiritual look than
formerly. He had not lost his strange youthfulness of expression; it
was as if a child had the appearance of having been longer on the
earth. His hair had thinned, and receded from his temples, and the
bold, almost babyish fulness of his temples was more evident. His
face was thinner, too, and he had not much color. His mouth was drawn
down at the corner, and he frowned slightly, as a child might, in
helpless but non-aggressive dissent. His worn appearance was very
noticeable, in spite of his present happy mood, of which his wife
shrewdly took advantage.

Ida Edgham did not care for books, although she never admitted that
fact, but she could read with her cold feminine astuteness the moods
and souls of men, with unerring quickness. Those last were to her
advantage or disadvantage, and in anything of that nature she was
gifted by nature. Ida Edgham might have been, as her husband might
have been, a poet, an adventuress, who could have made the success of
her age had she not been hindered, as well as aided, by her
self-love. She had the shrewdness which prognosticates as well as