“I could not write about such a thing—it was too dreadful! I thought I would accuse you of it face to face. But don’t talk about it, Harry, please—I can’t bear to think of it now; it was wicked of me ever to think it could be true.”
“And you came down here to-day still believing it! And you could kiss a man you believed capable of such an infamous thing!”
“No, no, Harry; don’t look at me like that! The moment you spoke to me alone in this room I felt it could not be true; because, you see, I was sure you loved me, and that cleared it all away.”
And her husband drew her again into his arms, with a mist before his own eyes.
Dusk had fallen, and they were still sitting there, when they were roused from a silence of perfect happiness by the prosaic sound of the dinner-bell. Harry had great difficulty in keeping his boyish high spirits under proper control during dinner, and, when it was over, he said:
“Let us go out of doors, Annie; there isn’t room enough for my happiness in a stuffy house.”
So he put on her hat and mantle very carefully and very clumsily, and they went out into the park.
“Take me to see the horses, Harry. Here’s your cigar-case; I saw it up-stairs, so I brought it down.”
“I may smoke then?”
“Yes, of course. You are going the wrong way. Isn’t that the way to the stables?”