're wonderful!'

Henry's soul was expanding like a flower and purring like a
well-tickled cat. Never in his life had he been admired by a woman. The
sensation was intoxicating.

Silence fell upon them. They started to walk back to the farm, warned
by the distant ringing of a bell that supper was about to materialize.
It was not a musical bell, but distance and the magic of this unusual
moment lent it charm. The sun was setting. It threw a crimson carpet
across the silvery lake. The air was very still. The creatures,
unclassified by science, who might have been mistaken for mosquitoes
had their presence been possible at Ye Bonnie Briar-Bush Farm, were
biting harder than ever. But Henry heeded them not. He did not even
slap at them. They drank their fill of his blood and went away to put
their friends on to this good thing; but for Henry they did not exist.
Strange things were happening to him. And, lying awake that night in
bed, he recognized the truth. He was in love.

After that, for the remainder of his stay, they were always together.
They walked in the woods, they sat by the silvery lake. He poured out
the treasures of his learning for her, and she looked at him with
reverent eyes, uttering from time to time a soft 'Yes' or a musical
'Gee!'

In due season Henry went back to New York.

'You're dead wrong about love, Mills,' said his sentimental
fellow-cashier, shortly after his return. 'You ought to get married.'

'I'm going to,' replied Henry, briskly. 'Week tomorrow.'

Which stunned the other so thoroughly that he gave a customer who
entered at that moment fifteen dollars for a ten-dollar cheque, and had
to do some excited telephoning after the bank had closed.

Henry's first year as a married man was the happiest of his life. He
had always heard this period described as the most perilous of
matrimony. He had braced himself for clashings of tastes, painful
adjustments of character, sudden and unavoidable quarrels. Nothing of
the kind happened. From the very beginning they settled down in perfect
harmony. She merged with his life as smoothly as one river joins
another. He did not even have to alter his habits. Every morning he had
his breakfast at eight, smoked a cigarette, and walked to the
Underground. At five he left the bank, and at six he arrived home, for
it was his practice to walk the first two miles of the way, breathing
deeply and regularly. Then dinner. Then the quiet evening. Sometimes
the movi