She talked in an arch, merry little way with everybody she won to her side, telling of places, things, people, anybody but herself and the colonel.
She had just returned from Europe. She was pretty, and an heiress, but she was not spoiled.
I admired the colonel more than ever at that time. He received the ladies' congratulations and compliments on his wife with a grave sweetness; I noticed that the men did not jest with him, and that their appearance did not suggest any of the stale jokes and comments on matrimony, common to a mixed company. More than all this, their composed and friendly demeanor when together, and the quiet system of their glances, pleased me.
But I knew that Staniels was very happy. His face unbent—its only fault had been a little coldness and sternness—and revealed a warmth and geniality that made him quite resistible.
He formed the habit of coming into my room to smoke, remarking that: "Say did not like tobacco smoke."
I never saw him smoke in her presence.
The name on her wedding cards was Sarah Fay Pomfret, but this stately appellation the colonel abbreviated to the diminutive title, "Say," and it seemed to quite suit her.
One day, about three weeks after their arrival, a party of us went down the shore gunning, Colonel Staniels was of the number.
My luck was unusually good. My game bag became heavy.
Towards noon I flung myself down under a tree to rest.