forms and confine himself to them. When he wanted to talk about

'fen-sucked fogs,'

and such damp, shivery places, he is all right, but when he sings of
'love's light wings,' and all that nonsense, he is impeded; now open to
him 'Italian, the language of angels'--you know the old rhyme--and
see what a chance he has among the "liquid l's and bell-voiced m's and
crushed tz's." To-night you will hear Desdemona call Othello 'Il mio
marito,' in a way that will start the tears. What are the stiff English
words to that? 'My husband!' Husband is a very uneuphonious name, I
think."

Norman Mann smiled. "Another cup of coffee, if you please--not quite as
sweet as the last," and he passed his cup. "I believe there is always a
charm in a novel word that has not been commonized by the crowd. 'Dear'
means very little to us nowadays, because every school girl is every
other school girl's 'dear,' and elderly ladies 'my dear' the world at
large, in a pretty and benevolent way. So with the words 'husband' and
'wife'; we hear them every day in commonest speech--'the coachman and
his wife,' or 'Sally Jones's husband,'--but I take it this is when we
stand outside. That wonderful little possessive pronoun MY has a great,
thrilling power. 'My husband' will be as fine to your ears as 'il mio
marito,' which has, after all, a slippery, uncertain sound; and as for
'my wife'--"

At that moment the coffee cup, which was on its way back, had reached
the middle of the table, where by right it should have been met and
guided by the steadier, masculine hand; Norman's hand was there in
readiness, but instead of gently removing the cup from Mae's clasp, it