Blanche twined her arms round his neck, and said tenderly to him: "Can that be a sorry home where love resides?"
"No, Blanche, no," he replied, kissing her forehead, "I was wrong. Love creates its own palaces; and we shall be as happy here, as if we had a splendid seat. We are starting anew in the world—it is well to start from low ground, because the smallest ascent has then its proper value. Here will I build myself a name that shall make you an envied wife."
"I am already enviable—ought I to wish for more?"
What a delightful evening they spent, arranging their property in the most convenient places, and then sitting over the fire discussing future plans radiant in the far-off sunshine of Hope. That little room—what a world it was! In the corner stood their bed,—in the centre a round table,—in another corner a small bookcase—by the window a toilet table. Nothing could be more cozy, they said.
O, 'tis a paradise the heaven of earth;
Didst thou but know the comfort of two hearts
In one delicious harmony united,
As to joy one joy, and think both one thought,
Live both one life, and therein double life;
To see their souls meet at an interview
In their bright eyes, at parley in their lips,
Their language kisses.*
* Chapman.--All Fools.
CHAPTER II.
INMATES OF A SUBURBAN BOARDING-HOUSE.
Next morning at breakfast Mrs. Tring's inmates assembled, and the new comers were duly introduced to their future companions. The breakfast was plain, and passed off rather uncomfortably, a feeling of restraint checking merriment. As the boarders descended one by one, and were presented to Cecil and his wife, an unanimity in commonplaces formed the staple of remark, and every one seemed unwilling to unbend before having closely scrutinized the new comers. Small communications respecting the state of the health, and of the good or bad night's rest, were confidentially whispered in corners; while daring prophecies on the subject of the weather were more audibly pronounced.
Mr. Revell, the ex-official, ate in solemn silence; Mrs. Merryweather, the lively Irish lady, was patronizing and polite; Miss Bachelor, as demure as a well-fed cat; Mr. Roberts, a dapper clerk with a rosy face and well-oiled hair, was the only person apparently undaunted by the presence of strangers, and rattled on with more confidence than wit, until the half hour warned him of the approach of his omnibus, when he buttoned his single-breasted frock-coat up to the neck, passed on to his red fingers a close-fitting pair of doe-skin gloves, rolled the silk of his umbrella into the smallest possible compass, and departed with the indelible conviction of being "about the neatest dressed man to be met in a day's walk."