Lillie felt a sort of pique with her husband.

He was evidently unappreciative: he was thinking of all sorts of things more than of her, and growing stupid, as husbands in French romances generally do.

She thought of her handsome Cousin Harry, the only man that she ever came anywhere near being in love with; and the image of his dark, handsome eyes and glossy curls gave a sort of piquancy to the story.
John got deeply interested in his book; and, looking up from time to time, was relieved to find that Lillie had something to employ her.
"I may as well make a beginning," he said to himself.

"I must have my time for reading; and she must learn to amuse herself." After a while, however, he peeped over her shoulder.
"Why, darling!" he said, "where did you get that ?" "It is Mrs.Follingsbee's," said Lillie.
"Dear, it is a bad book," said John.

"Don't read it." "It amuses me, and helps pass away time," said Lillie; "and I don't think it is bad: it is beautiful.