"Now we can discuss my difficulty in peace," said the lady, in
her pretty, imperious way. "I will, with your permission, tell
you some of my ideas."

The countess was not particularly gifted, but Ronald was charmed
by the series of pictures she placed before him, all well chosen,
with startling points of interest, scenes from noble poems,
pictures from fine old tragedies. She never paused or seemed
tired, while Dora sat, her face still flushed, looking more
awkward and ill at ease than Ronald had ever seen her. For the
first time, as they sat under the vine that morning, Ronald
contrasted his wife with his dainty, brilliant hostess, and felt
that she lost by the contrast--"awkward and ill at ease," self-
conscious to a miserable degree. For the first time Ronald felt
slightly ashamed of Dora, and wished that she knew more, and
could take some part in the conversation. Dimples and smiles,
curling rings of dark hair, and pretty rosebud lips were, he
thought, all very well, but a man grew tired of them in time,
unless there was something to keep up the charm. But poor little
Dora had no resources beyond her smiles and tears. She sat
shrinking and timid, half frightened at the bright lady who knew
so much and told it so well; feeling her heart cold with its
first dread that Ronald was not pleased with her. Her eyes
wandered to the far-off hills. Ah! Could it be that he would
ever tire of her and wished that he had married some one like
himself. The very thought pierced her heart, and the timid young
wife sat with a sorrowful look upon her face that took away all
its simple beauty.