“It is not seemly,” she said, “for my betrothed husband to imply that I could be at fault in a matter of propriety or punctilio. That is not possible.”
“You are right,” he said, and his eyes gleamed with admiration of her glorious beauty and imperious manner. “Forgive me,—you are indeed right.”
Though Schuyler Carleton may not have been lavish of affection, he begrudged no admiration to the splendid woman he had won.
And yet, had he but known it, the apparently scornful and haughty girl was craving a more tender and gentle love, and would gladly have foregone his admiration to have received more affection.
“But it will come,” Madeleine thought to herself. “I am not of the ‘clinging vine’ type, I know; but after we are married, surely Schuyler will be less formally polite, and more,—well,—chummy.”
Yet Madeleine herself was chummy with nobody save Tom.
They two were always chatting and laughing together, and though they differed sometimes, and even quarrelled, it was quickly made up, and forgotten in a new subject of merry discussion.
But, after all, they rarely quarrelled except regarding Madeleine’s approaching marriage.
“Don’t throw yourself away on that iceberg, Maddy,” Tom would plead. “He’s a truly fine man, I know, but he can’t make you happy.”
“How absurd you are, Tom! Give me credit, please, for knowing my own mind, at least. I love Schuyler Carleton, and I am proud that he is to be my husband. He is the finest man I have ever known in every way, and I am a fortunate girl to be chosen by such a man.”