Then they both coloured, she in shame that this ineffable James had ever called her wife. He, because the idea that any of her comforts or luxuries should emanate from her father or from any one but himself was repellent to him. He would have talked ways and means, considered the advantages of house or flat, spoken of furniture, but that at first she was wayward and said it was unlucky to “count chickens before they were boiled, or was it a watched pot?” She would only banter and say things that were without meaning or for which he could not find the meaning. Presumably, however, she allowed him to lead her back to the subject.
“I have in my mind sometimes a little old house in Westminster, built in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, with panelled walls and uneven floors. And hunting for furniture in old curiosity shops. It mustn’t be earlier than the eighteenth century, by the way. Not too early in that; or my Staffordshire won’t look well. In the living-room with the eighteenth-century chintz I see all little rosebuds and green leaves. A few colour prints on the walls.”
Gabriel had spoken of his collection of old prints. He said he would set about looking for the house at once. He told her there were a few such still standing, they were snapped up so eagerly.
Soon, quite excitedly they were both planning, talking of old oak, James I. silver, William and Mary walnut. Of all their happy hours this I think was the happiest they ever spent. Their tastes were so congenial, Gabriel’s knowledge so far beyond her own; the home they would build so essentially suited to them. There Margaret would write and play, hold something of a salon. He would see that all her surroundings were appropriate, dignified, congenial. She would be the centre of an ascending chorus of admiration. He would, as it were, conduct the band. With adoring eyes he would watch her effects, temper this or straighten that, setting the stage and noting the audience; all for her glorification.
When they parted on that Sunday night they could scarcely tear themselves asunder. Three weeks seemed so long, so desperately long. Margaret, woman of moods, suddenly launched at him that they would have no honeymoon at all. He was to look for the house at once, to find it without difficulty.
“Then I’ll come up and confirm; set the painters to work, begin to look for things.”
Gabriel pleaded for his honeymoon.
“But it will all be honeymoon.”
“I want you all to myself; for at least a little time. I won’t be selfish, but for a little while, just you and I....”
He must have pleaded well, for though she made him no promise in words he knew she had answered “yes” by her eyes downcast, and breath that came a little quicker, by the clinging hands, by finding her in his arms, her undenying lips.