He told the man to drive them through the Tuileries and over the river to the Luxembourg Gardens.
He touched her. She frowned. “Not here. It’s too full of Americans. We might be recognized.” Huddling herself into her corner, she tried to look as if he were not there.
As they came out on the quays, the river blazed golden, shining flash upon flash beneath its intercepting bridges. The sun was setting, gilding domes and spires. The sky was plumed and saffron with the smoke of clouds. Bareheaded work-girls were boarding trams; mischievous-eyed artisans in blue blouses jostled them. Eyes flung back glances. Chatter and a sense of release were in the air. The heart of Paris began to expand with the ecstasy of youth and passion. Her hand slipped from her lap and rested on the cushion. His covered it; by unspoken consent they closed up the space between them.
“Are you giving me permission?”
“Not exactly. Can you guess why I planned this? I—I wanted to be fair.”
“The strangest reason!” He laughed softly.
“But I did.” She spoke with pouting emphasis. “I’ve given you an awful lot of worry.”
“Don’t know about that. If you have, it’s been worth it.”
“Has it?” She shook her head doubtfully. “It might have been worth it, if——” A slow smile crept about her mouth. “Whatever happens, you’ll have had your honeymoon. People say it’s the best part of marriage.”
He didn’t know what she meant by a honeymoon. It wasn’t much like a honeymoon at present—it wasn’t so very different from the ride to Long Beach. He dared not question. Without warning, in the quick shifting of her moods, she might send him packing back to London.