The history of these seven days might be epitomized in the three words—They were happy!
Happy with the happiness that few mortals experience. Lord Blair had been in love before his marriage, but he was—and, believe me, dear reader, what I am going to state is not too common—he was more in love now, after these seven days, than before.
Margaret was not a girl of whom even the most fickle of mankind could tire easily, and Blair was not the most fickle.
He had often declared that his Madge, as he delighted to call her, was an angel; he married the angel, and discovered that she was a lovely and lovable woman, and I make bold to say—that for sublunary purposes—that is better, from a husband's point of view, than an angel.
"With each rising sun some fresh charm comes to view," says the poet; and Lord Blair found it so with Margaret.
Under the spell, the witchery of her presence, Lord Blair seemed to grow handsomer, younger, more taking, and to Margaret more charming. Oh, why cannot such epochs last forever, until they glide unconsciously into that eternity where all is love and happiness?
On this morning Blair lay stretched at her feet, near enough to be able to touch her hand, to put his arm round her waist. He was dressed in his flannels, she in a plain dress of some soft comfortable material which, while it showed the deliciously graceful outlines of her figure, enabled her to move about freely and without hindrance.
The light of love and happiness played like sunlight on her beautiful face, and glowed starlike in her eyes, which had rested on the glorious view, and now sought her husband's—and lover's—face.
"Madge," he said, after a long silence, during which he puffed at his pipe, "I am going to pay you a big and an awful compliment, and yet it's true—you are the only woman I ever met who didn't bore me!"
"In-deed!" she said, flashing a smile upon him which seemed like a sunbeam.