ed her with its own
free buoyancy; her delicate skin flushed in the wind; she forgot the
nervous strain of the morning, the awfulness of the grey chapel, the new
state of things, griefs that were past, responsibilities that were to
come. She turned to Orange as a child would turn to its inseparable
comrade, and clapped her hands with amusement at an organ-grinder with a
monkey and a dog whom she noticed sitting at the end of the pier,
waiting, apparently, for one of the excursion steamers bound for the
Isle of Wight.

"Pennies for the monkey, Robert," she cried; "a lot of pennies! And then
we must have our lunch. May I have some chicken and one of those very
droll, very stupid, English rice puddings? Please let me have one....
And may I kiss the dog? It is a nice little dog--quite as nice as
Pensee's Fidelio. Now I am going to talk to the monkey."

She ran toward the little animal, who was shivering, pathetic and
grotesque, in a military cap and red petticoat trimmed with yellow
braid. The dog, which was a young pug with excellent points, gave
Brigit, after many entreaties, his paw. She addressed the monkey in
Italian, and laughed till she cried at its absurdities. Robert looked
on, consumed by a sensation which he recognised, with much shame, as
jealousy. He thought the pug dull and the monkey revolting. Yet she
kissed one, and showered heavenly smiles on both.

"I did not know that you were so fond of animals," he said, as they
walked to the hotel for lunch.

"I am not," she answered frankly, "as a rule. But when I am with you I
feel so happy that I want to kiss everything--the ground, and the
trees, and chairs, and poodle dogs, and the whole world!"

"Then why not--me?"

She looked at him, blushed a little, and waited some moments before she
replied.

"I don't know," she said at last. "It must be because I am not in the
habit of doing so. I am not accustomed to you yet. I keep thinking 'I
shall wake up in a minute and he will be miles away.' Can't you
understand? So I am pretending to myself all the time that you are not
really here."

"I see."

"No, dearest, you don't quite understand; and you are a little
disappointed in me because I seem--I must seem--rather flippant. I
daren't be serious--I daren't. I daren't believe that I am your wife."

"But why not?"

She shook her head, and her whole face became clouded by the old,
terrible, unnatural sadness which he knew so much better than her
laughter.