A mute glance questioned him. Then lashes longer than Sylvia’s veiled the dark eyes.
He spoke again. “Dear!”
“You know you hate me,” she said.
He raised her hands to his lips.
“Have you forgotten Sylvia?”
“Absolutely, thank God! And you—I—after all, we are married, though there were no roses at our June wedding.”
Again her eyes questioned mutely.
He leaned forward and touched the Christmas roses with his lips. Then he dropped her hands and caught her by the shoulders.
“Oh! foolish, foolish, foolish people!” he said. “We two are man and wife. My wife! my wife! my wife! We are, aren’t we?”
“I suppose we are,” she said, and her face leaned a little towards his.