It was thus that Mrs. Lambert described an Apollo with a lyre who was regarding them from the opposite rock with classic preoccupation. Lambert lighted a cigar, and leaning back on his elbow in the grass, watched Francie’s progress through her inelegant meal with the pride of the provider. He looked at her half wonderingly, she was so lovely in his eyes, and she was so incredibly his own; he felt a sudden insanity of tenderness for her that made his heart throb and his cheek redden, and would have ennobled him to the pitch of dying for her on the spot, had such an extravagance been demanded of him. He longed to put his arms round her, and tell her how dear, how adorable, how entirely delightful she was, but he knew that she would probably only laugh at him in that maddening way of hers, or at all events, make him feel that she was far less interested in the declaration than he was. He gave a quick sigh, and stretching out his hand laid it on her shoulder as if to assure himself of his ownership of her.
“That dress fits you awfully well. I like you better in that than in anything.”
“Then I’d better take care and not get the juice on it,” Francie replied, with her mouth full of orange; “lend me a loan of your handkerchief.”
Lambert removed a bundle of letters and a guide-book from his pocket, and finally produced the handkerchief.
“Why, you’ve a letter there from Charlotte, haven’t you?” said Francie, with more interest than she had yet shown, “I didn’t know you had heard again from her.”
“Yes, I did,” said Lambert, putting the letters back in his pocket, “I wish to goodness we hadn’t left our address at the Charing Cross Hotel. People might let a man alone when he’s on his honeymoon.”
“What did she say?” inquired Francie lightly. “Is she cross? The other one she wrote was as sweet as syrup, and ‘Love to dear Francie’ and all.”
“Oh, no, not a bit,” said Mr. Lambert, who had been secretly surprised and even slightly wounded by the fortitude with which Miss Mullen had borne the intelligence of his second marriage, “but she’s complaining that my colts have eaten her best white petticoat.”
“You may give her one of my new ones,” suggested Francie.
“Oh yes, she’d like that, wouldn’t she?” said Lambert with a chuckle; “she’s so fond of you, y’know!”