"Put plenty of white in it, then," orders Mr. Grandon, and samples are brought out for his inspection. He thinks after this sorrowful time is over she shall dress like a little queen. There are so many lovely gowns and laces, so much that is daintily pretty, appropriate for her. He can hardly refrain from buying her trinkets and nonsense, but he will not have her subjected to hostile criticisms, and he is not sure his judgment is to be trusted. He would doubtless flounder among the proprieties.
"And now," he says, when they are in the street again, "would you like to go anywhere? There is the park, and there must be pictures somewhere. I wish there was a matinee, only it might not be right to go"; and he secretly anathematizes his own ignorance of polite and well-bred circles. But he learns the whereabouts of two galleries, and they stumble over some bric-à-brac that is quite enchanting. Violet has been trained on correct principles. She knows the names and eras of china, and has discrimination. Her little bit of French is well pronounced. She is not so well posted in modern painters, but she has the o'd ones, with their virgins and saints and crucifixions, all by heart.
They are sitting on a sofa resting, and glancing at some pictures opposite. Denise is busy with a homely farm scene that recalls her girlhood, and no one is in their vicinity. One small, white, ungloved hand rests on Violet's lap. Her face is sweet and serious, without the sad gravity that shadows it so often. Indeed, she is very happy. She has not been so much at ease with Floyd Grandon since her marriage, neither has he devoted himself to her entertainment with such a cordial purpose as now. He certainly is a fascinating man to the most of womenkind, even when he is indifferent to them, but he is not indifferent at this juncture. There is a curious quality in Floyd Grandon's nature that is often despised by enthusiastic people. When it is his bounden duty to take certain steps in life, he resolutely bends his will and pleasure to them. He means honestly to love this wife that circumstances or his own sympathetic weakness has brought him. Just now it seems an easy matter. He has a horror of pronounced freedoms; they look silly and vulgar, yet he cannot resist clasping the little bare hand. The warm touch thrills her. She turns just enough to let him catch the shy, pleased, irresistible light in her eye; no finished coquette could have done it better, but with her it is such simple earnest.
"Are you happy?" he asks, not because he is ignorant, but he wants an admission.
"Oh!" It is just a soft, low sigh, and though her cheek flushes that delicious rose pink, her face is still. The light comes over it like a lustrous wave.
"Why, this is a bit of wedding journey," he says. "I did not think of it before. I wish I could take you away for a week or two, but there is so much on my mind that maybe I should not be an entertaining companion. It will come presently, and it will be ever so much better not to be shaded by grief."
She is quite glad that they are not away from all the old things. She knows so little about him, she feels so strange when she comes very near to him in any matter, as if she longed to run away to Denise or Cecil. Just sitting here is extremely sweet and safe, and does not alarm her.
There is a clock striking four. Can it be they have idled away nearly all day? He rises and draws the bare hand through his arm, he is even gallant enough to take her parasol, while she carries a pretty satin satchel-like box of bonbons for Cecil. Denise comes at his nod; she has two or three of her mistress's parcels, and they take up their homeward journey. He carries her parasol so high that the sun shines in her eyes; but the distance is short, and she says nothing.
Fortunately they reach home just in time for dinner. Cecil is out on the porch, in the last stages of desolation.
"Come up with me and get this pretty box," cries Violet, holding it out temptingly. "And to-morrow we will both spend with Denise, who will make us tarts and chocolate cream."