id to Julia:

"Oh, isn't it nice, getting married!"

"Being married is nicer," said Osborn ardently. "I'll come and sit
beside you. Let's take off your hat. Now, put your head on my
shoulder. Isn't it jolly? I want to tell you how beautiful you looked
in church. I was half scared."

"So was I at first."

"But you're not now? You're not scared with me?"

"No--no," said Marie with bated breath.

Osborn smiled. "I'm going to make you very happy. You shall be the
happiest girl in town. You're going to have absolutely all you want.
But first, before we go back to town, there's our honeymoon, the best
holiday of our lives. That's joyful to think of, isn't it, darling?"

"It's lovely!"

"Glad you think so, too, Mrs. Kerr."

"Osborn, now tell me how my frock looked."

"I _couldn't!_" he cried in some awe. He sighed as if at a
beautiful memory.

"Ah!" said Marie, satisfied, "you liked it?"

She lay against his shoulder supremely content. The winter landscape,
which had lost its morning sun, was rushing by them and it looked
cold. But inside the honeymoon carriage all was warm, love-lit and
glowing. There was no dusk. Marie reviewed the day in her light, clear
mind, and it had been very good. Hers had been a wedding such as she
had always wanted. Osborn had looked so fine. She reviewed the details
so carefully thought out and arranged for by herself and her mother.
With the unthinking selfishness of a young gay girl, she discounted
the strain on the mother's purse and heart. The favours had been
exactly the right thing; the cake was good; the little rooms hadn't
seemed at all bad; Aunt Toppy's new gown was an unexpected concession
to the occasion; Mrs. Amber had been really almost distinguished; the
country cousins hadn't looked too dreadfully rural. People hadn't been
stiff, or awkward, or dull. As for Mr. Rokeby--that was a very
graceful speech he made. He was rather a gifted man; worth knowing.

But Osborn had very nice friends.

With the agility of woman, her mind jumped ahead to those little
dinner-parties. Soup one prepared well beforehand; a chicken, _en
casserole_....

Perhaps Osborn saw the abstraction of her mind and was jealous of it;
at the moment she must think of nothing save him, as he could think of
nothing but her. He put his hand under her chin, to lift her dreamy
face, and he kissed her lips possessively.

"Here," he demanded, against them, "what are you thinking about? We're
not going to