"Don't, Habakkuk! Mr. Broomfield be right. I means to think o' my friends, and I refuses to dirty my mind wi' listenin' to stories o' goats."
Her responses in church became louder and more fervent. Having gained the shore, after many buffetings, she put from her disagreeable memories of billows past.
Fancy and Alfred returned from London town full of high spirits and overbrimming with talk. Fancy looked prettier than ever hanging upon the right arm of her sergeant. His left arm still hung in a sling. The doctor, who examined it periodically, said solemnly:
"I'm very sorry, Sergeant, but I can't pass you as fit for duty."
Alfred grinned:
"You do pull my pore arm about, sir, but don't pull my leg, please."
The doctor laughed.
"You may count on six weeks at home, perhaps more."
The momentary pain of having small splinters of bone extracted was negligible compared with six weeks of married bliss.
Fancy's happiness defies analysis. Her naïve ecstasies astounded Mrs. Yellam, to whom marriage had been rather a prosaic affair. She wondered occasionally if this had been her fault. Why had dull contentment set in so soon? As a young wife, she may have overbusied herself with domestic duties. Fancy practised wiles and guiles with Alfred. She planned quaint little surprises, played dexterously with an imagination which became as lively as her own. One evening, when Fancy was upstairs, Alfred took from his pocket some pieces of white paper, all that was left of three packets of food. Abroad on business, Alfred had lunched under a hedge by himself, far from home. Upon the paper were pencilings in Fancy's handwriting. Mrs. Yellam wiped her spectacles and put them on. She read three sentences:—"Meat sandwiches. Don't gobble 'em! Say grace and think of Fancy." Upon the next piece of paper this was scribbled:—"Bread and butter and cheese—and kisses." And then the third:—"Rich cake stolen from Mother by a loving thief. P. S. Another fat kiss has just started to grow. F. Y."