“Mrs. Cloud?” began Laura at last.
“Well?”
“Mrs. Cloud?” Still Laura hesitated. “Do you think——Is it always—two languages? When one’s married a long time, is it different?”
“Oh, marriage is a new country altogether.” Mrs. Cloud was smiling again. “You both get—naturalized, I suppose.”
They sat in silence thinking their thoughts, till at last Laura gave a great, happy sigh.
“It will be lovely, being married to Justin,” said Laura dreamily.
“It ought to be,” said Mrs. Cloud.
CHAPTER XXI
I suppose that we all know summers and summers and—The Summer—the one summer into which, for whatever reason, all the forgotten others pour their glories, so that for ever it glows in our minds, an Eden of sun and strawberries and roses and a frock—that was a pretty frock!—and remembered sentences that still speak themselves in our ears in a remembered voice—a summer of immortal little things—a joke, a glance, a daisy-chain, a head turning quickly, an afternoon in the hay. The other summers are well enough, but their flowers, every primrose and poppy of them, open in their seasons and not all at once: and they are soon over. It rains for days in other summers. But in The Summer——