THE MAN IN THE CUSHIONED CHAIR
"Nice end of a honeymoon I'm having!" Jim grumbled. "With my wife thinking and talking all the time about another fellow."
"My darling, adored man!" I exclaimed. "You know perfectly well that you're the background and undercurrent and foundation of all my thoughts, every minute of the day and night. And this 'other fellow' is dying."
Yes; "darling, adored" were my adjectives for Jim Courtenaye, whom I had once abused.
All the same, if a cat may look at a king, a bride may just glance at a man who isn't her bridegroom.
"Ruling passion strong in—marriage, I suppose," said Jim. "I bet you'd like to try your hand at 'brightening' that chap—though judging from his face, he's almost past even your blandishments. I wouldn't be past 'em—not in my coffin! But it isn't every blighter who can love as I do, you minx."
"And 'tisn't every blighter who has such a perfect woman to love," I capped him with calm conceit.
"But I wish I could 'brighten' that poor fellow. Or else I wish that someone else would!"
And at this instant my wish was granted in the most amazing way!
A girl appeared—but no, I mustn't let her arrive upon the scene just yet. First, I must explain that Jim and I were on shipboard, coming back to England from America, where we had been having the most wonderful honeymoon. Jim had taken me out West, and showed me the places where he had lived in his cowboy days. We had ridden long trails together, in the Grand Canyon of Arizona, and in the Yosemite Valley of California. I had never imagined that life could be so glorious, and our future together—Jim's and mine—stretched before us like a dream of joy. We were going to live in the dear old Abbey which had been the home of the Courtenayes for hundreds and hundreds of years, and travel when we liked. Because we were so much in love and so happy, I yearned to make a few thousand other people happy also—though it did seem impossible that any one on earth could be as joyous as we were.