“You are a sweet woman,” he said, and put his arm about her, and stood looking with her out upon the small but pretty garden of their home.
Pride of ownership filled the man’s brain, flooded his heart with genial warmth, even as the sunlight which flooded the garden and shone hotly on the gaily coloured flowers in the borders. He felt that life had nothing more to offer him; his cup of happiness was full to the brim.
But to the woman, looking out on the sunlight with him, such complete satisfaction was not possible. She was content. But the sun of her happiness had passed its zenith and was on the decline.
Together they went through the house on a tour of inspection, while lunch was preparing. Each room called for comment and fresh expressions of delight. They came to their bedroom last. George sat on the side of the bed while Esmé removed her hat and gave little touches and pats to her hair, standing before the mirror and surveying her appearance critically. She discovered a tiny powder puff and dabbed her face with it. These mysteries of the toilet interested George profoundly. He disapproved of the puff.
“I can’t understand why you do that,” he said. “Your skin’s all right.”
“We do a lot of incomprehensible things,” she returned, laughing at him. “Men shave, for instance, though nature intended them to wear hair on the face.”
“That’s one up to you, old dear,” he said, and got up and seized her by the shoulders and kissed her. “It’s rather jolly to be in our own home. It was nice being away together; but this... Esmé, I feel extraordinarily happy. It seems too good to be true, too good to last. It’s great.”
“Silly old duffer!” she said, smiling back into his eager eyes. “Why should the good things be less enduring than the evil?”
“Put like that, I don’t see why they should be,” he responded. “Wise little woman! we will make our good time last for all our lives.”