“‘Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me!’”
With a little shudder Margery turned from the window.
“To-day has broken the spell,” she said, hurriedly, with forced lightness. “I think I am tired of the sea at last.”
“You shall leave it when you will—to-night even, if you wish it, my darling; it is still early afternoon. I will telegraph for rooms. Pauline shall accompany you; the others can remain, with the exception of my man, and follow to-morrow.”
“But it is so much trouble,” began Margery.
“Trouble, my sweet, where you are concerned! You would like a change? Yes, I see it in your eyes! We will go, and this, Margery, shall be the beginning of our married life, henceforth to be spent hand in hand together. I will go at once and give my orders; we will start by the first train. I believe there is one about half-past four.”
“You are so good!” Margery murmured.