"Hilda," said Quentyns, as they were driving to the station, "why did you have such a very funny bouquet in church? You showed me Lady Dellacœur's flowers last night. Why didn't you wear them, darling? Those harsh holly berries and leaves weren't in your usual taste."
"But you're not angry with me for carrying that little bouquet, Jasper, are you?"
"My darling, could I be angry with you for anything?"
"The little bunch of holly was Judy's wedding present," said Hilda, tears dimming her eyes; "I promised her that I would wear them. Sweet little darling, my heart aches at leaving her."
Quentyns took Hilda's hand and held it firmly within his own. He said some sympathetic words, for Hilda's slightest grief was grief to him, but in his heart he could not help murmuring:
"That tiresome, morbid child. Poor darling Hilda, I must show her very gently and gradually how terribly she is spoiling Judy."
CHAPTER VIII.
HONEYMOON.
The night is in her hair
And giveth shade for shade,
And the pale moonlight on her forehead white
Like a spirit's hand is laid;
Her lips part with a smile
Instead of speakings done:
I ween, she thinketh of a voice,
Albeit uttering none.
—Mrs. Barrett Browning.