She omitted to note that such ground stretched widely on either side of the line of demarcation that divides the subtlety of irony from the obviousness of mere comicality.
Nicholas stayed with the Stellenthorpes for nearly a week, and Lily took him for walks, and played the piano for his loudly expressed admiration, and was both vaguely disappointed and slightly relieved at the impersonality that generally prevailed in their conversations. She actually surmised in Nicholas a certain shyness that he had not shown in Italy, as though he sometimes doubted his own powers of pleasing and attracting her.
It was inevitable that gratified vanity should play a large part in Lily's view of the clever and distinguished man, so much her senior, who sought to win her favour with a diffidence that filled her with wonder.
Philip's manner towards his daughter had also altered, and on the day preceding the last one of Nicholas Aubray's visit, it needed only her father's pleased yet anxious glances towards herself, and in the tone in which he said: "Why not stay in this afternoon, Lily? I don't like that little cough of yours," to convey to Lily that the two men were to hold a conversation together, and that although she was not to be present at it, her father desired to make sure of her presence in the house. She acquiesced, as she had all her life acquiesced in his obliquely conveyed wishes, in part from the inculcated habit of obedience, and in part from her own moral cowardice.
"I think I shall sit over the fire in the library. Shall we have tea there? It's much warmer than the hall."
"Certainly. We'll join you there."
This time Nicholas, as well as Philip, cast a glance at her that seemed to bear unspoken meanings.
Lily's afternoon in the library was not a reposeful one.
She tried at first to feel pleasure in her own undoubted resemblance to the heroine of a novel. Situation and setting were alike traditional. No doubt Nicholas Aubray was at that moment asking formal assent of her father to the right of proposing to her.
Lily stifled at birth a rebellious fancy that she might have preferred less formality and more impetuosity from her lover.
Her upbringing, assigning to parents a right little less than divine over their children, and her sense that Nicholas scarcely belonged to her own generation, alike enabled her to view his method of procedure as the desirable outcome of his scrupulous chivalry.
She played for a little while with fancies that she herself qualified as childish, concerning a diamond ring, the excitement of telling the Hardinges that she was engaged, and the glory of being married at twenty.
Mrs. Aubray—she would be Mrs. Aubray!
Lily Aubray.
She wrote it down and looked at it, feeling more than ever like the heroine of a novel. Then Lily suddenly told herself that it was her duty to face this question—and again had to stifle an unwelcome idea that the time for facing it had already passed when she had first suggested to her father the visit of Nicholas Aubray. It was extraordinary, the difficulty of facing the question.
Her mind kept wandering to trivial considerations, and she rehearsed to herself the imaginary speeches that Nicholas might make. She could not focus her thoughts at all to the point of supplying her own answers.
"But I must know whether I mean to accept or to refuse him!" Lily expostulated with herself.
She remembered the accepted convention that no woman need allow a man to offer her marriage in so many words if she intends to humiliate him by a refusal.
"A nice girl can always stave off the actual proposal, and make the man understand that it's no use," Dorothy Hardinge had once seriously informed her.
But Lily did not now feel that any amount of subtle "niceness" on her part could possibly stave off a declaration which had got so far as to receive the sanction of her father.
Staring into the fire, she thought that she was making up her mind when she told herself resolutely: "Now, I must decide once and for all whether I'm in love with him or not."
Aunt Clo's words—almost the only ones that had remained with her out of the many so lavishly scattered for her benefit—returned to Lily with a sense of uneasiness.
"If you can ask yourself for a moment, Do I love? then it is certain that you do not...."
Lily did not want to think that it was certain that she did not love Nicholas Aubray.
There were times when she did love him, she felt convinced. She was less certain whether she was "in love" with him.
Oddly enough, the memory of the boy Colin Eastwood recurred to her again and again, not by value of his own personality, but as the object round which certain infinitely vague and delicate emotions had centred.
"But they were such little things," Lily murmured to herself, frowning.
It had mattered whether or no Colin had the place next to hers at the picnics—whether, in exchanging good-nights at the end of a moonlight walk, his last "good-night" had been for her—whether they were partners in the tennis tournament or not—whether they danced the last waltz of the evening together. If he was in the garden while the rest of them were clustered round Lily at the piano, she acknowledged a slight feeling of restlessness that consciously vanished at his footstep—which she could always distinguish—on the threshold of the French window.
It had, somehow, been an incident in the day, if he touched her hand in helping her up some steep bank, or in handing her a tennis ball. Philip's unspecified, but thoroughly understood, condemnation of the whole slight episode had relegated it to the extreme background of Lily's consciousness. It had become foolish, something to be slightly despised—on account, she supposed of Colin's youthfulness and the negative property described by her father as "leading to nothing."
Nicholas Aubray, so much her senior, "led to" something. In some ways, Lily felt that he understood her, and like all young and over-sensitive souls, she craved to be understood.
Nicholas had understood about her liking childish things—he had even appeared to share her tastes. She knew, instinctively, that they had, mentally, much in common.
It was impossible to imagine everyday life lived with Colin Eastwood; but with Nicholas Aubray she could picture to herself a life of companionship, of books and theatres, and friends shared by them both.
"I might have a baby," Lily reflected, after deciding that she would like to live in London.
It pleased her to reflect how fond Nicholas was of children, and it was quite easy to picture him with the blue-eyed baby of Lily's own most private fancies.
Whereas the thought of Colin Eastwood as a husband and father seemed absurd—almost indecent. He belonged to a dream world.
The little things that had seemed to matter so much belonged to the dream world too.
It had certainly never seemed important whether or no Nicholas sat next to her at tea-time, nor had she any particular recollection of ever distinguishing his footfall from that of the Marchese della Torre, or her father's or Cousin Charlie Hardinge's.
The new and mysterious instincts, conjured momentarily into being during a midsummer holiday, had nothing to do with Real Life.
For a moment, Lily visualized strange possibilities, of that dream world inextricably interwoven with Real Life, in such fashion as could never be realized through the medium either of Colin's personality or of Nicholas Aubray's.
"Body, soul and spirit——"
Words, somewhere read, floated across her mind, implying something of union scarcely apprehended, to the very existence of which she had no clue, save only that most deep-rooted instinct which she had been taught to ignore and to distrust. Like a clarion call across the faint stirrings of an all but extinguished breath of life, came the rousing echo of Miss Melody's teaching, impressed by many repetitions:
"No day-dreams, childie! Beware of that imagination of yours—don't let yourself get morbid...."
Morbid! That was the word—the terrible, degrading word, that was never analyzed, which was applied to private thought and the construction of private ideals. They were morbid.
Lily regarded it as a sign of grace that this timely recollection caused her to feel ashamed. She rallied to the call of Miss Melody's wisdom.
"I shan't decide anything in a hurry. I ought to make sure, and so I'll ask him to let me give him an answer in a little while. And perhaps I'll go and stay at Bridgecrap and see Miss Melody and talk to her—it will help me to get my thoughts thoroughly clear, if I put them into words. There's nothing to be at all frightened of—I needn't do anything I don't like—I'm a free agent. I mustn't be morbid."
Lily felt braced and relieved, when she had thus discovered that a line of least resistance still existed, and that the facing of a direct issue might still be postponed, and perhaps almost altogether avoided, by shifting the onus of decision on to Miss Melody's advice.
She trembled very much when Nicholas, late in the afternoon, came and joined her, standing over the great armchair into which she had sunk back.
It seemed to her, that he, too, was nervous as she looked up at him speechlessly.
"I've had a—a very nice talk with your father," he said at last. "I've been talking to him about something which is more important to me than anything else in the world, just now."
Nicholas paused and Lily saw that he, also, was shaking a little.
At the same moment he dropped on to one knee beside her and laid his hand over hers.
"Lily dear," said Nicholas Aubray, speaking with great simplicity, "you know that I'm very much in love with you. Could you care for me enough to be my wife?"
Instead of the exultation of mind she had expected to experience on hearing this, her first proposal, Lily felt an odd inclination to tears. She looked down at Nicholas.
"Do you really want me to?" she asked him falteringly, and like a child.
A sudden laugh flickered in his gaze as it met hers.
"You dear child! Of course I do. Do you think I don't mean it? Why, Lily, I've thought of nothing else since those very first days in Italy."
He looked at her wistfully.
"Do I seem to you too old, my dear? I do love you so much. I think I could make you very happy."
"But you—could I ever—you must think of your happiness too——" said Lily incoherently. "Oh, please, will you let me think it over for a little while and write to you?"
"Then you'd like me to go away to-morrow, back to London?" said Nicholas slowly.
Lily felt ashamed and sorry as she saw the disappointment in his face, but she nodded an assent.
"It must be just as you like, my dear, of course. I could hardly have hoped for anything else, perhaps." He rose to his feet again.
His face was very much overcast as he stood silent, in front of the fire.
Suddenly he threw back his head and squared his shoulders with the gesture she had so often seen, and gave a little laugh.
"Never say die, eh, Lily? You know, I shan't take no for an answer very easily. Tell me, dear, you do like me a little, don't you?"
"Very, very much."
"Then won't you trust me to look after you, and make you happier than you've ever been? I believe I could, Lily."
"I do trust you. Only—it's too serious," said Lily timidly. "I want to make sure that—that I care, too."
There was a silence. Then Nicholas Aubray said abruptly:
"You're right, my dear. You shall have time, all the time you want. But can't you give me a little hope, meanwhile?"
His response to her appeal had moved Lily to that intensity of gratitude and admiration that his chivalry could always evoke in her. The sudden, warm recognition of his generosity roused the like impulses in herself.
"I think it will be all right," she said naïvely.
"You little darling!"
On the instant all his gravity had vanished and he wore the aspect of buoyancy that contrasted so effectively with his grizzled head and broad shoulders.
"There's something I want now, Lily. I wonder if I shall get it—just to send me back to town happy?"
She looked at him rather apprehensively.
"Please, please don't look so frightened, dear! It wouldn't mean anything you don't want, you know."
"What?"
"Mayn't I kiss you, Lily—once?"
The first impulse of a coquetry in reality foreign to her nature stirred in Lily.
"No one ever has, yet," she said, and smiled.
"I know that, my dear. I was sure of it. You're like your name—a little, untouched flower."
A tiny thrill shot through her at the words, the first approach to direct love-making that she had ever heard addressed to herself. She felt sorry when the characteristic British reaction against an open expression of sentiment came swiftly from Nicholas.
"You see, you're actually making me poetical!" he exclaimed, with a hastiness that obviously covered a certain confusion, and if his ensuing laugh was jerky and over-prolonged, it needed but little intuition this time to attribute it to scarcely disguised nervousness.
"What did Father say?" Lily asked, in reality speaking almost at random so that he should stop that unamused, spasmodic laughter.
"He was very kind to me, and gave me leave to come down here whenever I like. So you see, I can come for my answer as soon as you like to send for me. But you're a little fraud, my dear, to turn the conversation like that! Will you let me have one thing to remember?"
He was looking full at her with ardent and yet kindly eyes.
Lily nodded faintly.
As he bent over her she raised her head a little and turned her face sideways to him, closing her eyes. For the fraction of a second Nicholas Aubray hesitated, and then stooped and kissed her very softly on the cheek.
She wondered why, as he straightened himself again, he laughed—this time very low and gently.
XII
"My little pet, you must decide for yourself."
Philip Stellenthorpe was deeply moved.
"My little pet!" he repeated. "It only seems the other day that you were playing with your toys on the nursery floor. I can't deny, my child, that it would make me very, very happy to give you to such a man—one whom I could trust so absolutely. He would make you very happy, Lily."
"That's what he said," answered Lily, with no ironical intent.
"You must study your own feelings, Lily. Remember that it's a responsibility.... Aubray is a very able man, my child, with a career before him. It's a great honour to be asked to share the life of such a man. You do feel that?"
"Oh yes, Father."
"That's right, darling, that's right. I don't wish to persuade you in any way. At the same time it would make me happier than anything else in the world, now, to see my little Lily married to such a man. It's—it's a wonderful opportunity, Lily. My little motherless girl, living quietly at home, to marry a distinguished man of Aubray's standing, before she's twenty!"
The triumph in Philip's voice, of which he himself seemed to be half ashamed, touched Lily acutely.
He might say, in all sincerity, that he did not wish to persuade her, but he could have found no more effective means of so doing than by his very forbearance.
His wistful pride in the opportunity that he so obviously was longing to see her accept, and the restraint that he put upon himself in order to leave her free, filled Lily with a passionate wish to please him.
She knew that, were she to disappoint him in this, he would not reproach her. Only the mute pathos of a deepened silence, a more constant melancholy, would do that.
"He wants me to be happy, after all," reflected Lily, knowing also that Philip would only see happiness for her in just such a marriage, in just such a life, incapable of believing in the reality of any happiness that he could not personally apprehend.
Nor, indeed, had Lily any specific alternative interpretation of the term to submit to him. Marriage, in spite of Miss Melody, had always appeared to her as the natural goal of woman, and she was young enough to tell herself very seriously that this, her first offer of marriage, might perhaps also prove to be her last. The dread of perpetual maidenhood, in fact, possessed Lily so firmly that she almost found herself urging it to Miss Melody herself, as a reason for accepting Nicholas Aubray. For Miss Melody, interested and incisive as ever, had spoken.
"Childie dear, listen to me. You must weigh the pros and the cons very, very carefully. I'm very glad you take this question seriously, Lily, very glad indeed. Now, dearie, do you know what I recommend? Write it all down, Lily, put it all on to paper. Write down the For and Against, just as though it were one of the old school exercises. There's nothing like method, dearie—you know that's what I always say. Do you think me very unromantic?"
In truth, Lily did think so, and she looked apologetically at Miss Melody.
Her old schoolmistress laughed heartily.
"Well, well, it's very natural you should think so, but you must beware of that romantic little head of yours. Do you remember, Lily, when you were leaving school, that I warned you against letting your imagination run away with you? Oh, you've improved since those days, I know—I know. But now, my dear child, you have come to cross-roads, and there must be no mistake here. It's too important. Tell me, what does your father say to you about this?"
"He has been very kind. He hasn't said much. I know he wants me to feel quite free. But, of course, I can't help knowing that he would like it very much, and I should like to please him."
"He would like it very much, would he?" repeated Miss Melody reflectively. "Well, childie, that seems to me a very big item on the side of the Pros. Not as a sole reason for marrying, you understand, or even as a chief one—but simply because your father's judgment of this man is likely to be a very, very sound one. If he likes him so much, and trusts him well enough to want to give you to him, why, then, Lily, I think we may safely take it for granted that he must be a very admirable person. A man is a better judge of another man than we women can ever be, you know."
If Lily, in some undefined way, felt that Miss Melody had failed to touch upon the real point at issue, which in no way concerned the intrinsic worth of Nicholas Aubray—she had too much faith in the voice of external authority, and too little in her own convictions, to pause upon the thought.
"Then there's another thing, you know, dearie. You say he is a good deal older than you are. Well, childie, that seems to me in your case to be a real advantage. You lack backbone, Lily—you know I've always told you so. I should be frightened to think of you at the head of a household without a very, very steady hand behind you, childie. Don't you feel that yourself?"
"Yes, I think I do."
Miss Melody shot out a plump forefinger almost triumphantly.
"There you are, again! I think I do. You must know, childie dear, not think! Oh, Lily, Lily!"
Miss Melody shook her head and dropped her deep voice. There was humour in her kindly, penetrating eyes.
"It seems to me that a clever, strong-minded man, older than yourself, is the very husband you need, Lily. Tell me—you trust this man?"
"Oh, yes."
"That's the great thing—absolute trust. But there's another question too, dearie—one that only you can answer. Do you care for him?"
Had Lily replied in accordance with her state of mind, she would once more have said, "I think I do."
But she felt that this formula of uncertainty was now barred to her.
"Sometimes I do," she remarked finally.
"Sometimes, sometimes!" repeated Miss Melody in melancholy impatience. "What a half-hearted little person it is! Lily, Lily, either you care for this man or you don't care for him, surely. How can you say 'Sometimes'?"
"There are times when—when he's nicer, and I like him better, than other times," Lily confusedly tried to explain.
Miss Melody's brow cleared.
She laughed.
"And are there no times when you are 'nicer' as you call it, than at other times? We're all human, you know, dearie. You mustn't look for perfection."
Lily had often told herself the same thing, and illogically derived reassurance in hearing from somebody else the truism that had failed to impress her from within by any applicability to her especial need.
"I'm not certain that I'm in love with him," she said timidly.
"You mustn't confuse being 'in love' with loving, childie dear," said Miss Melody.
They looked at one another in silence.
Apparently Miss Melody had no further assistance to give to Lily. Her subsequent counsel was merely repetition, and she concluded it by telling Lily gravely and kindly that nobody could really advise her, or had any right to try to influence her. She must decide for herself.
Lily left Bridgecrap with the complete certainty that the wise and experienced Miss Melody was strongly biased in favour of her pupil's immediate marriage with Nicholas Aubray.
"I shall expect to get news from you soon," said Miss Melody significantly in farewell.
It in no wise mitigated the significance, that she should add with an inscrutable smile:
"One way or the other."
It would fall extremely flat, Lily reflected ruefully, if her news were to be "the other," after all.
The novel sense of her own importance was so agreeable that she felt no more than a passing shock at the discovery that the Hardinges were perfectly aware of Nicholas's proposal.
Ethel Hardinge, after a few brisk preliminaries as to the disadvantages of being motherless, sought candidly to advise Lily.
"There's nothing like first love," said Ethel in a hearty sort of way. "They say nobody marries their first love, but I did, and no two people could be happier than we are, of that I'm certain."
"Then it does last?" said Lily tentatively.
"Being in love? Well, no, dear, not in the same way, of course. One must look at these things sensibly, and yet at the same time without being foolish," said Mrs. Hardinge with clarity. "I'm speaking to you as I should speak to one of my own girlies. You mustn't expect to remain in love for ever and ever."
Lily felt that Cousin Ethel was taking too much for granted.
"But Cousin Ethel, I don't know that I am in love at all, yet."
"Oh! Well, of course, dear—just hand me the white cotton, dear—Sylvia is so hard on her knickers, always——But you do like him very much?"
"Yes, very much."
"He certainly is charming—so utterly unlike most clever people. He's a good deal older than you are—perhaps that's what you're thinking of? Dorothy never looks at them if they're over twenty-five, but then you and she are very different."
"Yes," said Lily dejectedly.
She had an undefined feeling that any possible vestige of romance was being eliminated from her love-affair by all these bright and kindly discussions. She felt more at a loss than ever.
"But, after all, Lily, nobody can make up your mind for you. It's a thing you must really decide entirely for yourself. The scissors, if you wouldn't mind, dear. I should hardly feel justified in talking to you at all, if I wasn't so fond of you, and then you've no mother, poor dear! But I shouldn't dream of influencing you, one way or the other."
There was a pause, and Lily picked up a reel of cotton and handed Mrs. Hardinge the scissors.
"It would give your father the greatest happiness, of course, and he's had a sad life, Lily. He never got over the loss of your mother, as Charlie says. And then if anything happened to him, well, of course, there'd be a home for you and for Kenneth and someone to look after you both. Not that you couldn't always count on us for anything we could do, but nothing can be the same as one's very own belongings. With a husband, you see, there's always somebody there."
"That's just what I'm afraid of, in a way," said Lily, at last gathering courage. "I mean that it would be so dreadful if one found one didn't care enough, and yet one was permanently tied."
"But, my dear child," said Mrs. Hardinge earnestly, "there is a love that comes after marriage, you know. Not the same thing as being in love, but something that really lasts. Many a girl who hasn't known whether she was in love or not, or who really isn't in love with the man at first, finds everything quite different once she's really married to him."
Lily listened believingly. Nothing seemed to her more probable than that the married state, about which there hung many mysterious reticences, should operate some startling change of outlook by means unguessed at by the uninitiated.
"Perhaps," suggested Mrs. Hardinge hopefully, "you're more in love than you think you are. Very often girls don't realize things—and then before they know where they are, it's too late, and may mean a life-time of regret."
Thinking this over, it appeared to Lily that Cousin Ethel, who was so kind and knew so much about young girls, held that if one was in love, very likely one didn't know it until after one had married the man and that if one wasn't, it was still worth while marrying him because there was something better than being in love, that came after marriage.
The only remaining alternative seemed to be the life-time of regret.
Having derived no stable satisfaction from the advice that she had already received, Lily began to consider where she could seek for more advice, and involved herself further and further in the endeavour to see truth through the vision of others.
Dorothy Hardinge was crudely positive.
"I wouldn't have him, Lily, if you aren't in love with him. There are sure to be heaps of other men who'll want to marry you. They even want to marry me, and you're a million times prettier than I am, and heaps of men don't care a bit about games. I mean whether one's good at them or not. Of course that's one thing in Mr. Aubray's favour, I suppose—as he's frightfully clever and rather old and lives in London, he wouldn't mind about your being rather bad at games, would he?"
"He doesn't mind at all; he's told me so."
"That's all right then. I suppose you wouldn't tell me what he said when he proposed? I can't imagine him doing it, somehow." Dorothy giggled. "I bet he was very grand and formal."
Lily raised her chin slightly.
She had no desire to hear Dorothy's wit, the elementary form of which was well known to her, expend itself in this direction.
But it was never difficult to change the trend of Dorothy's thoughts.
"You've had a great many people in love with you, haven't you, Dorothy?"
"We hardly ever see a new man down here," said Dorothy discontentedly. "But I must say, I generally have somebody or other to make things amusing—one meets them at tennis, and so on. But of course you know, they don't all propose, or anything like that."
"What happens, then?"
"Well," said Dorothy, in a candid and interested voice, "there are generally what I call the three stages: eyesie-pysie, handy-pandy and footy-wootie. First, one just looks at each other and sort of gets going that way, then they squeeze one's hand whenever they can, and try and get hold of it in the dark, coming home from dances and that sort of thing, and then they stick out their foot under the table or somewhere, and press yours, and you go on talking to other people all the time and looking as if nothing was happening. It's sort of fun in a way, though I wouldn't dare tell Mother about it. She'd say it was vulgar, I suppose."
The same unpleasing adjective also appeared to Lily to be highly applicable.
"No one's ever done that kind of thing with me," she said, without emphasis of any kind.
"I suppose you're not the sort, or else you haven't met enough men. That's what I mean, Lily. I do think it would be a frightful pity to get married right away, before you've had any fun at all. Of course, one couldn't go on with that sort of fooling about after one was married, it wouldn't be playing the game. But I must say it's fun, and I can't see any harm in it, so long as one doesn't take it too seriously. Of course, I shouldn't let things go too far."
"What would you call too far?"
"Well, there are girls who say that a dance isn't any fun, unless one gets—well, kissed, as a matter of fact."
"Oh!" said Lily disgustedly.
"I know it's rather awful, when one says it in cold blood like that; and mind you, I don't go in for it myself, Lily, I really don't. I won't say that no one ever has, but it was a sort of accident, truly it was."
"Didn't you mind?"
"No," said Dorothy, "I can't say I did. Afterwards I sort of felt ashamed of myself because I knew Mother would think it so awful if she ever knew—which God forbid! But it sort of seemed natural, kind of, at the time."
"I don't believe I should ever like it," said Lily with finality.
"I think you ought to give yourself a chance of finding out. It's all very well," said Dorothy argumentatively, "if one's frantically in love with anyone, I suppose one's mad enough to want to be tied up to him for ever and ever. But personally I don't want to fall seriously in love for ages yet. Just have a good time while I'm young and have heaps of great friends, and then perhaps, later on, a real, proper grande passion or whatever they call it, and get married."
"I think one might be rather sorry, then, that there had been other people first," said Lily shyly.
"I think that's sentimental tosh," said Dorothy Hardinge with simple finality.
The verdict disquieted Lily but slightly; nevertheless, Dorothy's wisdom had its effect upon her decision. If eyesie-pysie, handy-pandy and footy-wootie constituted happiness in youth, then better far be married, and to relinquish youth.
Lily felt certain that she had no talent for such a form of enjoyment, and she thought that it must be on this account that no such overtures as those described by Dorothy had ever fallen to her lot. The daughter of Philip Stellenthorpe knew no regret, however, for the deprivation.
She could never afterwards recall with any definite certainty the moment in which she took her final decision. When she found herself betrothed to Nicholas Aubray, it seemed natural enough, and the sense of irrevocability that thenceforth encompassed her, Lily almost welcomed.
No one gave her any advice now. They all congratulated her, and even Dorothy Hardinge, after she saw Lily and Nicholas together, and when Lily, herself awestruck, displayed an emerald and diamond ring and a diamond pendant, said cordially:
"Well, I must say you were right in a way, Lily. The trousseau and the presents and all this fuss about you must be simply too heavenly!"
Lily herself derived unforeseen excitement and pleasure from all these accessories to her engagement, her father's intense gratification and pride in her, the warmly-worded congratulations that she received, and the admiring welcome that her youth and prettiness met with from the bewildering number of new friends and relations to whom Nicholas presented her, even the trousseau frocks and the jewels and the wedding presents, all gave her a dream-like feeling of astonished delight.
She did not doubt any more whether she was in love. There was a glamour over her days that could only mean happiness, and happiness and love were still, to Lily's way of thinking, synonymous.
Sometimes she realized with surprise how impossible it would be now to disappoint all this kindness, and saw herself as much bound to Nicholas as though she were already married to him. And she felt with a certain joyful astonishment, that any lingering doubt must be dispelled by the discovery that the personality of Nicholas Aubray seemed to be far more in harmony with her own as a lover than as a friend.
XIII
The person of whom Lily seemed to see least during the period of her engagement was the man whom she was to marry.
Jests about placing them beside one another at the many hospitable tables to which they were invited seemed to be inevitable, but each was obviously expected to talk and make acquaintance with the friends or relations of the other.
Everyone congratulated Lily whole-heartedly.
"He's awfully nice, Lily—he's got such a nice twinkle," said Dorothy Hardinge.
Now that Lily was really engaged, with a ring, and presents arriving every day, and a trousseau imminent, Dorothy was full of excitement, and appeared to have forgotten all her previous strictures.
Perhaps there was something infectious about the glamour surrounding a wedding.
Lily reflected naïvely that she had never before realized how impossible it would be to break off an engagement once it had been made known. Would one have to return all these glittering, shining presents, countermand all the things that had been ordered, write explanations to everybody, and an announcement to the papers so that one's change of mind should be made public? Surely nothing could be more utterly impossible. She had a strong suspicion that the mere imagining of such a contingency would unhesitatingly have been labelled as morbid by Miss Melody.
She abandoned it willingly.
A letter from Miss Melody, the reading of which was very like listening to Miss Melody's own deep voice, did much to confirm the surmise.
"Well, Lily dear, and so the die is cast! Shall you think me quite a witch, childie, if I confess that I wasn't altogether astonished at the news, although very, very much pleased?
"The love of a good man is a great thing. I am glad you look upon the responsibility that it entails upon you as a serious one. At the same time, however, don't let your thoughts dwell too much upon that side of it. Remember that 'the burden is fitted to the back!' Perhaps not very complimentary to Mr. Aubray, but you'll understand what I mean, dear child."
Lily could almost hear the low, rich laugh with which Miss Melody repudiated any uncomplimentary intent in the not very felicitous expression that she had selected.
Many other letters reached her, some of them from relations whom she had scarcely seen. Most of the writers seemed to have heard of Nicholas Aubray as a distinguished and clever man, some of them had even met him, and those who had not done so were as enthusiastic as those who had, since hearsay had endowed him so plentifully.
It was all very like a dream.
Nicholas urged an early wedding, and was rather timidly seconded by Philip.
"I am in favour of early marriages," said Philip, with his habitual air of affirming a theory in the hope of making himself believe in it.
"Yes, yes, yes—for the girl, certainly," said Charlie Hardinge.
Even without Cousin Charlie's tactful implication, it was evident that no one could suggest that Nicholas was making an early marriage.
"He isn't a widower, is he?" said Sylvia to Lily with an air of horrified apprehension.
"Oh no! How could you think so?" Lily was equally horrified.
"I thought he might be, as he's so old—and I must say I should hate to think of your doing anything like that!"
"So should I," said Lily with perfect sincerity. "I should want to be the only person that my—my husband had ever loved."
She was innocently consequential, and Janet Hardinge's scoffing laugh jarred on and surprised her.
"All that is stuff out of books. Nobody ever loves only one person, I don't believe. Not in a long life, anyway."
"Of course, one cares for a lot of people," said Sylvia indignantly, "but Lily and I mean the falling-in-love sort of love. I should hope she was the only girl he'd ever been in love with! I wouldn't marry a man unless I was."
"Mother herself says that very few people ever marry their first love," said Janet quite firmly.
This led to a serious conversation with Cousin Ethel.
Lily did not exactly seek it, but she was ready to resign herself to what she supposed to be a necessity.
"You have no mother, poor child."
Ethel spoke the time-honoured cliché very kindly.
"I am glad you are going to be married, Lily. After my own girls, I don't know that any engagement could have given me so much pleasure. Not only for your father's sake—though I'm delighted to see how happy it makes him—but for your own. Oh, my dear, make the most of your time. It's so wonderful to be young, and happy, and in love."
Lily tried to appear responsive, and was angry at the slight self-consciousness that alone possessed her as she tried to contemplate the causes for rejoicing enumerated by Mrs. Hardinge.
"You're a very, very lucky child. He's a man in a thousand, and it's a wonderful thing to have found one another in time. All the nicest men are generally married long before they're anywhere near his age."
"I suppose," said Lily, remembering Janet, "that I oughtn't to expect, perhaps, to be his first love?"
She looked at Mrs. Hardinge, hoping for reassurance.
"My dear child! Of course, there's love and love, you know. Men have their fancies, but it's the woman they want to marry who really counts. Has he ever told you about—about anything of that sort, in his life?"
"He told me he'd never asked anyone to marry him before."
"There!" cried Ethel in a tone of relief. "What more can you want? I think that's marvellous, at his age. And, Lily dear, let me give you a word of advice. You've no mother, poor child! Now that he's so generously and frankly told you that, you'll be content, won't you? I mean, don't go on and on asking him about the time before he knew you. Some girls are so foolish and wreck all their own happiness with that sort of thing. But I don't think you're like that, are you?"
Lily was puzzled, and also rather distressed. Was married life to contain merely a fresh series of those silences and reticences that had made life at home a thing of eternal difficulties?
It did not seem characteristic of Nicholas.
At last she said: "I should like us to tell one another everything, I think, Cousin Ethel."
Mrs. Hardinge burst into a rather nervous laugh.
"Oh, my dear little girl! Now I'm going to talk to you just as though it were Dorothy or Janet. You see, dear, men aren't the same as women and we mustn't expect it. Nicholas is—is a good man, you know, or your father wouldn't let you marry him. But no man can be expected to tell his wife everything, as you call it—especially when there is a difference in age."
Lily began to feel as though they were talking at cross-purposes.
"You must trust your husband, you know, dear," said Cousin Ethel.
"We do trust one another."
"I'm sure of it. And remember, Lily, that men know a great many things that women aren't expected to understand, and so you mustn't be disappointed if Nicholas has interests in which you can't altogether share. It's bound to be so, even in the very happiest marriages."
Lily felt vaguely disappointed. Her ideal of companionship had been otherwise, and no doubt Cousin Ethel would have joined with Miss Melody in apostrophizing it with that disparaging adjective, Romantic.
"You young things are always so romantic," cried Mrs. Hardinge, causing Lily to start guiltily. "Of course it's natural and right that you should be so, and one's glad of it. Dorothy is just like you, Lily, and so is even little Sylvia. Goodness knows I don't want any of you to be old before your time. I'm often worried about Janet, and the things she says. But you know, dear, it wouldn't be fair not to warn you that there's always something to put up with in marriage. There must be give and take on both sides. And it's a great change for a girl, too—naturally it is."
"What did you feel like when you were first married, Cousin Ethel?"
"I was very much in love," declared Mrs. Hardinge, "and so was Cousin Charlie. And we've been as happy as the day is long together. But of course there were things to put up with. I was one of a very large family. We lived in London at first, and my home was in Ireland and we were much too poor to go there and pay them visits as I should have liked to do. I remember at first, when Charlie was at the office all day, I used to wonder how I could bear the loneliness. The housekeeping didn't take any time at all, and I couldn't shop much, because we hadn't a penny to spare, and we couldn't afford a library subscription even, or a piano. I used to do a lot of sewing, and when it got dark, and I wanted to economize and save the gas bill, I used to sit and do nothing, and think about them all at home having a jolly time in the old schoolroom, and I don't mind telling you now, Lily, what no one ever knew, that I used sometimes to cry my eyes out with home-sickness."
"Oh, poor Cousin Ethel! And what did Cousin Charlie do?"
"He never knew anything about it. I wouldn't have let him know for the world. He would have thought I was unhappy."
Lily was more perplexed than ever. It seemed that because a wife was unhappy, it must at all costs be avoided that her husband should think her unhappy.
"Wouldn't he have understood?"
"I daresay he would. I'm sure he would have been very dear and kind. But men do dislike that kind of thing so much. You know, dear, a woman, after she's married, has to forget herself and think of her husband."
Lily had been taught to regard self-abnegation as a virtue, and she saw nothing but cause for shame in her own fleeting suspicion that it might in reality be nothing but a weakness.
"There's one thing, you won't have the wretched question of money to worry you. When I first married I had no allowance, and had to ask Charlie for every penny. Not that he ever grudged it, poor dear—far from it. But it used to make it so difficult, somehow, to ask for a shilling here and a shilling there—even though it was absolutely necessary. Of course later on, when we were a little better off, he gave me a fixed sum for the housekeeping, and I always saved on that. Charlie sometimes asked me how I'd managed to find a new bonnet, or some little thing for the babies, but I never told him very much about it." Ethel laughed reminiscently.
"Would he have minded?"
"Oh, I don't suppose so. But one never quite knows about money, with men. They're so odd about that sort of thing. And, of course, women don't know anything about money matters."
It seemed a pity that there should be so many things that women knew nothing about.
"Marriage is the only life for a woman, my dear. I hope all my three will marry. I can't tell you how sorry I am for women who are old maids—no interests, no children, very likely no home. Whereas a happy married life——" She paused expressively, and then said:
"You were too young to notice very much when your mother was still alive, but look at your father without her! He has never got over her loss. They were absolutely devoted to one another. Or if you want to know what really happily married people are like, Lily dear, you've only to look at us."
The contemplation of Mr. and Mrs. Hardinge left Lily still speechless.
Perhaps something of this dubious spirit showed in her face. At all events Mrs. Hardinge said very earnestly:
"Now don't mix up love and romance, Lily. They have nothing whatever to do with one another. You girls never seem to realize that, and then of course you're disappointed. Being in love is one thing, and a very right and natural and charming thing—but you mustn't expect to stay in love all the days of your life."
"I suppose not," said Lily doubtfully.
She had not the moral courage to suppose anything else, imbued as she was with the theory that it was both her duty and to her advantage to accept her opinions ready-made from her seniors.
"I don't want to sound hard and cynical, dear," said Ethel, looking harassed and motherly. "Of course you're in love with Nicholas and he with you, and it's the very happiest and most idyllic time that you'll ever know. I only meant to put you a little bit on your guard—after all.... No mother, poor child!"
It came in almost like the refrain of a song.
"And even if—when the actual glamour of falling in love is over, then, you know, there's something very much better that takes its place."
"What, Cousin Ethel?"
"Oh, my dear child! Love—trust—confidence—all the little ups and downs you've been through together—even the little quarrels. It all helps to draw you more closely together. Charlie and I laugh together now sometimes, at all sorts of funny things that happened to us years ago. It all helps."
Helps—what did it help?
Lily would not ask any further, because of a strange, sick feeling that kept on invading her and to which nothing would have induced her to give the name of dismay.
So that was love.
She felt ashamed and almost angry at the thought of her own secret, past dreams. Romantic, indeed. Miss Melody and Cousin Ethel, extremely unlike as they were, would most certainly have joined issue in kindly condemnation here. Both would alike have made use of the self-same words. Beware, foolish little child, of romance and of imagination alike.
Love was a thing of ephemeral excitements, greatly accrued self-importance, preparations, gifts, congratulations, a great deal of talk and discussion.
It was also a thing of rather bewildering demands and claims. Nicholas had the right to hold her hand now whenever he wanted to, and he always did so whenever they were alone together, playing with her engagement-ring, bending back the supple fingers, examining the tips of them, very often kissing them. He put his arm round her when they were together, frequently. He kissed her lips at each meeting and parting—sometimes he unexpectedly bent and touched her cheek or her forehead.
It had been a relief to Lily to find that his touch did not actually displease her, as did that of most people.
She was by temperament, she supposed, undemonstrative, but it disappointed her vaguely that certain latent possibilities in herself had not in any way been roused by Nicholas. She wished that there was anyone to whom she could turn for explanation.
But of course everybody would make the same humiliating accusation, and inform her regretfully that she was romantic. These wild, sweet dreams had been romantic, undoubtedly.
She had thought of love as a thing of flames and carnations—the odd, beautiful words had served her fancy instinctively. Something so wonderful that talk would spoil it. Or if there had to be talk and discussion and preparation, it would all pass by unheeded, because of something that mattered so infinitely more.
She had a curious idea that one would not care to have a wedding, and a beautiful lace veil, and all those presents. It would be more like an inevitable recognition of a great central fact in the whole universe, and then—what?
She hardly knew, but could formulate vaguely the picture of a going forth. The soft, dark-blue gloom of a summer night, and the trusted, hidden depths of a known and loved beech-wood, or the lashing wind of a grey, winter sky and the shelter of a flung cloak and the lee of a high boulder—what would it matter, which the setting were?
O folly, O romance! O shadows of Philip Stellenthorpe, tremulously proud of a future position, of Charlie and Ethel happily married and discussing the new asparagus-bed, and the children, and the ups and downs of their joint past, of Dorothy Hardinge, gaily pursuing her course of handy-pandy, eyesie-pysie and the rest of it, and yet frankly envious of Lily's new dignities!
Those were the real things, the real necessities, and so were the wedding preparations, and the beautiful ring, and the endless consultations over clothes and furniture and journeys....
The dreams were—just Romance, to be condemned and eschewed, now that Reality had come. And Cousin Ethel had said that this was the happiest and most idyllic time of Lily's life.
It was full of excitement, certainly.
"Lily dear, you'll have to settle about that blue brocade quickly, if you want to take it away with you. Of course, if you wait for it till you get back there's heaps of time."
"Oh, must I write another letter, Cousin Ethel?"
"Poor child, your hand must be tired. Janet can write it for you quite well if you tell her what to say."
And Janet, not at all unwillingly, was pressed into the service.
Lily's own sudden importance positively bewildered her.
"My dear child, the vicar wants to know your choice of hymns for the ceremony. Will you and Nicholas talk it over, and let me know as soon as you can? Nicholas will be here on Saturday, I suppose?"
"Yes, Father. You know you said every week-end until the wedding."
"Of course, my little pet, of course. I only wish he could give us more time; but after all, he'll want the holiday more, later on. How long are you hoping to be away?"
"He thinks he can spare a month quite well."
"That's excellent. It'll be a wonderful time for you both, my dear child."
"Lily, Lily!" Kenneth burst into the room. "There's another enormous parcel for you just come—it says Glass. Come and see what it is."
"A telegram for you, miss."
"Nicholas can't get away on Saturday, Father. He isn't coming."
"Dear me, how very disappointing. My poor, dear child!"
"He'll come next week-end, for certain."
Lily was actually experiencing an unacknowledged relief at the thought that the claims upon her time necessitated by the presence of Nicholas were at least postponed.
There were so many letters to be written, parcels to be unpacked, clothes to be tried on, and it was all so very important.
"That's my good little girl," said Philip, in a tone that expressed as much relief as though he had feared the outbreak of tears to be expected from a child disappointed of its treat.
Mrs. Hardinge was plain-spoken.
"Well, you'll see plenty of Nicholas after the wedding, and now you can get some of those letters off your mind, Lily. You can make them very short. Everybody knows that a bride never has time for long letters, and you simply must get everything finished up before the wedding."
Before the wedding—until the wedding—because of the wedding.
They all said that, in a frenzied sort of way which implied that the wedding was the final goal towards which Time itself was tending as to the ultimate bourne.
"After the wedding" was only alluded to as some remote period during which rest might obtain which must until then be utterly foregone. Lily's own imagination refused to entertain more than the crowding preoccupations of the present. She knew that she and Nicholas were going to Paris together, but all that she could realize was that by that time all the presents must be acknowledged, all the new frocks finished and packed up, and all the various business of the last few weeks finally accomplished.
The relief of it would be incalculable.
The last Saturday before the wedding-day brought Nicholas, but this time he stayed with the Hardinges. Lily saw him, alone, less than ever.
"Can't I see you in your wedding-dress, just for a minute?" he urged.
"Good gracious, no!" Cousin Ethel was horrified. "Don't you know it's unlucky? She isn't going to put it on again till she goes to the church. You'll see it then. And she looks lovely. It's the prettiest wedding-dress I've ever seen."
Lily thought of the misty whiteness of her wedding-dress, swathed in tissue paper, hanging alone in a large closet, with a dust-sheet spread upon the floor beneath it, across which lay the heavy gleaming folds of the embroidered train.
She could not believe that she was to wear it. On the eve of her wedding, the preparations all somehow miraculously completed, Lily was principally conscious of overpowering physical fatigue.
The wistfulness of an utterly over-wrought spirit possessed her, and she felt strangely inclined to tears.
"It will be a very sad house without you, little Lily," said her father pathetically.
"Oh, I hope not, Father."
"Well, well—I mustn't let my loneliness sadden your joy. You are happy, my darling?"
"Very," said Lily in a choked voice.
"Remember that if you have the slightest doubt of your own feelings, it's not too late to say so. Even now, at the eleventh hour," said Philip solemnly. "It's not too late."
It was the first time that he had made any suggestion of the sort, and Lily was by this time quite incapable of viewing it as a practical possibility. The beautiful and costly wedding-dress hanging in the closet upstairs, the lace veil and the pearl necklace, the packed and corded trunks with new-painted initials, the very fact that within less than twenty-four hours a number of guests would be assembling in church, made it quite impossible to receive Philip's portentous warning as being more than a mere form of words.
It almost seemed as though he regarded it so himself, for when Lily murmured an inarticulate and meaningless reply he said:
"You've chosen a good man, and one to whom I am proud to give you."
He kissed and blessed her very kindly, rather as though it were part of some grave ritual.
"I approve your choice on behalf of your mother, as well as myself. If only she were here, Lily! Poor child, it's hard on you."
Philip suddenly began to fidget with whatever lay nearest to hand.
"You've had a little talk with Cousin Ethel?" he said meaningly.
Lily had had innumerable talks with Cousin Ethel, but a terrifying certainty suddenly invaded her that her father was alluding to none of them.
She said "Yes" nevertheless, and Philip said hastily: "That's right, that's right," and did not look at her.
Lily hoped fervently that there the mysterious question would be allowed to rest.
When Mrs. Hardinge sought her that evening, however, she knew that her hopes were futile.
Cousin Ethel looked at the wedding-dress, scrutinized the white gloves, told Lily to drink a glass of hot milk so that she might sleep, and then began to wander aimlessly round Lily's bedroom, straightening small pieces of furniture with a confused and absent air.
"Everything is absolutely ready, I think, and Dorothy and I will be round in good time to help you dress. You—you're all right, dear?"
"Yes, thank you, Cousin Ethel. I'm so tired I believe I shall go to sleep at once."
"That's right. Try and not think about anything, but just go off to sleep."
Cousin Ethel seemed to hesitate, picked up a packet of labels and put it down again, and said rather hoarsely:
"You mustn't be nervous, my dear. Poor little thing—I wish you had your mother. But it'll be quite all right really, you know."
Mrs. Hardinge gazed at her with an apprehensive look.
"You've lived in the country all your life, after all. You—you know——Well, dear," said Mrs. Hardinge in a sudden burst of courage, "after all—you've seen the animals."
The expression was perhaps infelicitous.
Lily, terrified and over-tired, began uncontrollably to cry.
XIV
It was a surprise to Lily Aubray to learn, while she was still upon her honeymoon, that her husband considered her to have been a spoilt child in the house of her father.
He did not in the least make this a subject of reproach, but humorously took it for granted.
"You were probably much too pretty not to spoil," said he.
The accusation mortified Lily.
"But I really don't think I was particularly spoilt, Nicholas. Not after Mother died, anyway. Father was rather strict about a good many things. I was not allowed sweets, for instance, and hardly ever saw any other children, and never went to parties. And you know how particular he is—and always was—about manners."
"Too particular," said Nicholas significantly. "He never scolded you, I suppose?"
"Not exactly."
"Just let you see when you'd done the wrong thing, eh? That's the trouble, my dear. A little wholesome criticism would have made you much less thin-skinned. It's a great pity there's so much difference in age between you and Kenneth. You've practically been an only child since you were ten years old."
Lily remembered various disparaging comments applied to herself by the girls at Bridgecrap, and certain doubts of her father's absolute infallibility, stifled conscientiously hitherto, began to stir within her. It was true that she was childishly over-sensitive, brooding over a trifling criticism, and hurt by it the more, when she could not help recognizing its truth. Philip, when obliged to point out a defect in his offspring, had always done so with portentous elaboration and had himself suffered so obviously in the composition and the delivery of his rebuke, that each such occasion had acquired a monstrous and deplorable significance.
Nicholas, whether he praised or blamed his wife, did so with cheerful and unsparing candour. Far more often than he criticized her, however, he paid her extravagant, and not always discerning, compliments.
"You're so keen about things, Lily, that's what's so splendid of you. So thoroughly interested in everything."
Sometimes Nicholas said this when Lily had not been interested at all, but had merely, in accordance with the training of her childhood, simulated interest or amusement, in order that she might not disappoint him. She was not sufficiently well-educated to enjoy a very great deal of sight-seeing, and certain prolonged visits to art galleries and museums in Paris tired more than they pleased her. Music, of which she had a real appreciation, Nicholas professed to love, but Lily found that although he beat time with his hand very enthusiastically at the beginning of any well-known work, and frequently hummed something rather indeterminate under his breath, he found concerts in reality tedious.
When they visited a large cordite factory, he was enthusiastic, and Lily endeavoured to be so as well, understanding very little of what he told her, but saying "Yes, I see," and asking questions that she hoped might please him.
Sometimes a fleeting wonder crossed her mind as to the possibilities of companionship between two people of identical tastes and desires. Once, even, she found herself reflecting upon the extreme, and obviously unattainable, luxury of perfect honesty, frank admission of likes and dislikes, frank recognition of differences to be admitted and respected. An impractical idea, and one that verged upon the disloyal. She did not mention it to Nicholas. There were, in fact, several things that could not be mentioned to Nicholas, although this, like so much else, Lily would not have owned to herself.
She was never at a loss for conversation with him, as she had often been with Philip, saving up small remarks and comments that occurred to her during the day in order to produce them at meal-time and promote talk.
With Nicholas, there were no weighty silences. He was almost always ready to talk, and Lily found it very easy to please him. He always seemed to find her amusing, and was equally ready to laugh at her jests and at his own.
Even his love-making was of a jovial, exuberant kind now, and he often exclaimed joyously and loudly that it was a topping world.
"Isn't this simply great now, little pal? Isn't it all splendid?"
An odd self-consciousness invaded Lily on these occasions; she wished that her replies were less perfunctory than she felt them to be.
She did not, somehow, feel exuberant, as Nicholas did, but oddly bewildered and tired.
Sometimes Nicholas was solicitous for her and asked anxiously whether she had a headache, or felt fatigued, but he was curiously lacking in discernment, and seldom made the enquiry on occasions when Lily really was tired.
She decided, after a time, that he only did so when prompted by some lassitude of his own.
Lily was not consciously disappointed by a certain lack of sympathy between herself and her husband, partly because it was only evinced in small and infrequent ways, and partly because she conscientiously recalled to her memory the many warnings received from Cousin Ethel and other authorities.
Marriage was a thing of give and take, they had said.
Nothing was perfect in this world.
Romance was an affair of the imagination, and imagination was something to be kept strictly within bounds.
With these and other platitudes Lily contrived to stifle the memory of her old day-dreams, so kindly and gravely condemned by Miss Melody.
There were a great many lighter aspects of her new life that gave her a childish sense of gratification.
She liked the glances of surprise which strangers occasionally cast at her wedding-ring, and the polite astonishment of the shop assistants when they discovered her to be "Madame" instead of "Mademoiselle."
The many compliments that Nicholas received from acquaintances upon the beauty of his young wife he faithfully transmitted to Lily, and they added to her pleasure in her new dignities.
She enjoyed wearing her new and beautiful jewels, and when Nicholas, regardless of her already elaborate trousseau, begged her to buy Paris frocks, Lily declared herself desirous of a black velvet evening dress, because "only married women wore black velvet."
Nicholas laughed heartily at her pretensions, took her to the most extravagant couturier in Paris, and had her photographed in the black velvet gown, that admirably enhanced her fair, child-like beauty.
He praised her looks continually, and Lily presently discovered that she could please him very much by allusions to his own height, the breadth of his shoulders, and his fine carriage.
Sometimes he suggested that they might be taken for father and daughter, but he obviously wished the idea to be received with friendly derision, and Lily never failed to gratify him.
Nevertheless, Lily in her own mind very often contrasted Nicholas with her father.
On the whole, life was very much easier and more natural with Nicholas than it had been with Philip. Each, in widely different ways, was exacting, but Nicholas only demanded an intensification of display, where Philip had required a suppression of natural characteristics. Nicholas was actually pleased when Lily admitted that she liked sweets, and did not at all appear to think it a waste of money to buy her fondants and marrons glacés.
Sometimes she thought that the most child-like qualities in her were the ones that he most valued. She wore a different frock almost every day, and knew that he delighted in her display of vanity. The new frocks themselves pleased her, too, and the novelty of her independence, and even such trivialities as her new address.
"Mrs. Aubray," she read aloud with a certain triumph, on the envelopes of newly-arrived letters.
Mrs. Aubray glanced self-consciously at her wedding-ring, visualized herself in her new clothes, and the graceful disposition of her wavy hair as manipulated by her new maid, and read her letters from England.