CHAPTER XII.
Henry Whitman and his wife Sylvia remained, the one reading his Sunday paper, the other her book, while Horace and Rose were away.
Henry's paper rustled, Sylvia turned pages gently.

Occasionally she smiled the self-satisfied smile of the reader who thinks she understands the author, to her own credit.

Henry scowled over his paper the scowl of one who reads to disapprove, to his own credit.
Both were quite engrossed.

Sylvia had reached an extremely interesting portion of her book, and Henry was reading a section of his paper which made him fairly warlike.

However, the clock striking four aroused both of them.
"I think it is very funny that they have not come home," said Sylvia.
"I dare say they will be along pretty soon," said Henry.
Sylvia looked keenly at him.