"You may. I never really enjoy coffee until I have finished."
She was irresistible. And all this loveliness, this unconsciousness, was now but for his own eyes. Isabel was his wife. To-day he felt that he had sinned only by once becoming a priest bound by unnatural vows.
God had created a pair in the beginning, decreed that man should not live without sympathy, without love. He was thinking of couples bound as prisoners. Everything seemed so natural for Isabel and himself, except when he did not sleep or went back too far. The white satin empire gown lay extended on the couch.
Philip pointed drolly across the room, then touched the sleeve of Isabel's dainty night robe. "I like this gown best; you seem about eighteen months, hardly old enough to be Reggie's fond mamma."
"For shame!" she cried. Still she was pleased. With mention of her boy she began to talk of the little fellow, to wonder what he was doing on this very Sunday morning.
The breakfast above proved to be a happy thought. Husband and wife "took turns" from the single cup; there was gayety and byplay.
"We have not left a crumb!" said Isabel. "I never ate such good toast. You know we are to have dinner at one—the regulation hour for the day; we shall subsist until then." She poured the last drop from the coffee pot. "This is our loving cup. Let us drink to every one that is married—in the big world!"
Philip smiled. "That wouldn't do, too many miss the whole thing," he answered.
"I suppose so," she agreed. She had almost forgotten the time when life had not been full and satisfying. "Now it is all so wonderful—so sure," she added softly.
"But of course honeymoons have got to be silly—real silly—just like this breakfast. After a while we shall both be serious enough, with your literary work and Reg growing up."