“I hope you have not been dull to-day,” said Tom, when the two entered the parlour. “I don’t like to see you dull.”
“I have been as lively as usual,” she answered.
“Umph, that’s not saying much, darling,” returned the husband in a tone of banter. “Not much, you’ll admit. At present the place is new and strange to you. In time you will be more used to it.”
“Shall I?” she murmured.
“Why of course you will.”
“Make haste and get rich, Tom dear; then we can have a grand house in London.”
His countenance fell as he listened to her. For a long time she had appeared discontented with her lot, and this had been a sore trouble to Gatliffe, who found, as others had found before him, that matrimony was not all smooth sailing.
As yet there had been no storm, but distant rumblings of thunder had been heard.
He drew the beautiful face of his young wife towards him, and kissed it with a fondness which spoke more eloquently than words.
“My dear Aveline,” he murmured, “our little house is to me more beautiful than a palace. The reason is plain enough—it contains you.”