Slipping from bed and into an adjoining room of her strange new dwelling, Stella lighted a small oil stove and started a kettle of water for their coffee. Returned to the bedroom, she arrayed herself in a bit of frilled and beribboned negligée and a lacy boudoir cap: small extravagancies of the unambitious shopping tours preceding her wedding. Adorned in these luxuries, she sat before her improvised dressing table to begin a rather elaborate toilette.
Stella had done all she could with the primitive conditions surrounding her here. The dressing table was fashioned out of an empty packing case, covered with some old flowered goods. A small mirror hung above it, and on either side were cheap little bracket candle-holders with coloured candles that had begun to nod under the hot breath of the tropics. She had pictured herself in a boudoir rather more authentic; but for the present this one would do very well.
She sat absorbed in the pleasant task of making herself attractive. Ferdinand still slept, but was beginning to stir. Even in bed, relaxed and disheveled with sleep, he looked like a god; and Stella, glancing over at him, felt more than ever inspired to make herself beautiful. She must hold his love, she mused—and even tinted her cheeks a little.
King yawned and turned. A romantic manœuvre entered her head, almost as though inspired by the gay little cap. She fluttered over to the bed. “I’ll wake him with a kiss!” she thought. However, the stratagem was not productive of entirely happy results. Her husband hoisted himself on an elbow and blinked a moment at the surprising apparition he had married; but instead of compensating her in some way for this early effort in his behalf, King let his eyes droop shut again, with a tiny frown, and slipped back—he had barely seen her. The unfortunate bride had violated an entrenched masculine tradition: these things are very subtle.
Yet sleep was really exhausted, after all, and a moment later King thought better of his drowsy petulance, roused and called to her: “Stella!” And she paused, turning a little toward him, while he blinked goodhumouredly and held out an arm, beckoning slowly. She gave him a rueful smile and trudged back, pouting a reluctant forgiveness, her heart relieved, though still in a mood of vague disappointment.
“You mustn’t let little things upset you so easily, Stella,” he said, with the faintest shade of curtness. “I’ve got a big contract on my hands here, and must get my sleep out. Anyway,” he added, patting her hand, “it isn’t late, is it?”
Stella glanced at her watch, pinned on amongst a gay little whirl of ribbons and laces. “Nearly nine o’clock,” she said—and, oddly enough, the intelligence quite changed the complexion of things.
He sprang out of bed with an exclamation. “That’s what a climate can do! Why didn’t you call me hours ago? I’ll have to get an earlier start—where the devil is my shaving mug—is there any hot water, Stella?”
“A little, Ferd,” she hesitated. “For our coffee....”