"She spoke his name with a dull accent of grief, and I buried myself amongst the flippery. Her kiss was moist on my lips, and I had no taste for allusions to the dead man.
"The next thing was a riding habit—torn across the skirt.
"'A cropper,' I remarked; 'and enjoyed, or this memento would scarcely be here?'
"'That,' she allowed, sadly, 'is a natural inference—correct in this case, but not in all.' I glanced hurriedly along the line for relics of crape—but she resumed my enlightenment. 'This was a souvenir of a grand day's hunting and a broken ankle.'
"'And someone?' I hinted.
"'Yes; George—my husband—carried me home.'
"I turned abruptly to a party frock—the colour of a rose. There was a green patch on the right breast—the blurr of crushed flowers.
"'No occasion to state what this means,' I snapped irritably. I was seized with a desire to close the wardrobe on these trophies of conquest.
"'No,' she said, with a quiver of the lips, 'we were married soon after.'
"I threw myself into an arm-chair in the sulks, but she moved on to show another gown—a bed or invalid gown—worn and faded.