I felt an extraordinary atmosphere of noble sweetness, it seemed to throb through me. I was shiningly happy in the very inmost corner of my soul.
Cheneston is a perfect host; so many men leave off being the wives' hosts after they have married them. I had a feeling that Cheneston never would.
We talked of books—funny, dear old-fashioned authors like Dickens and Mrs. Gaskell and Jane Austen. When we rose he looked at me.
"You, woman, are wonderful," he said tersely: "you have only blown in here, and yet you belong to it, you are of it."
"And to-morrow I shall blow away again," I said.
"And to-morrow you will blow away again, he acquiesced.
"Can you imagine Grace Gilpin here?" I said suddenly. "Can you imagine her beauty in this setting?"
"It is unimaginable," he said curtly.
"She is beautiful," I persisted. I had an idea that my words must come sobbingly, because my heart was sobbing.
"She is the most beautiful thing I ever saw," he agreed. "They are bringing us coffee in the drawing-room."