"Yes, really."
"Well, then, it isn't. But I hate to see you lying here like this. I want us to go and explore. In that big garden by the waterside it's gorgeous. And—there's your work."
He flushed a little, struggling with himself. At last he said:
"After all, it's our honeymoon. We can afford to slack a little."
She laughed outright at that. He could not see anything to laugh at.
"It isn't enough for me—slacking. I hate it. I want to do things just all the time. I want to dig up fields and move hills about, and things like that. Louis, don't you think we might go up country and be squatters like uncle?"
"I wouldn't mind being a squatter like your uncle," he said, comfortably "with fifty quid notes to splash all over the shanty! But you're not getting tired of me, are you, darling—after last night?" he added gently. She flushed, and fidgeted perilously on the window-sill.
"No, Louis. But—after last night—I don't like to see you lying here like this," she began.
"I know it's boring for you, my pet. Marcella, come and sit on the edge of the bed. We can talk better if you're near me."
"No, I'll stay here," she said decidedly. "And it's not boring for me. It's—" She was going to say "degrading" but stopped in time.