They had been married that morning. Ranny had had to bring his bride straight from her father's house to Granville. There could be no going away for the honeymoon. Woolridge's wouldn't let Ranny go till the sales were over.
It was only a minute ago that he had had his arm round Violet's waist, and that her face had pressed his. It seemed ages. And suddenly Violet had shown sulkiness and irritation. He couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand how she could have chosen their first hour of solitude for finding fault with the arrangement of the room. He himself had been distinctly pleased; proud, too, of having furnished throughout from Woolridge's, in a style that would last, and at a double discount which he owed to his payment in ready money, and to his connection with the firm.
Now he faced a young woman who had no understanding of his pride and no pity.
"It's all wrong," said she. "And I'll tell you for why. It's too heavy. You should have furnished in bamboo."
"Bamboo? Sham-poo! It wouldn't last," said Ranny.
"Who wants the silly things to last?" said Violet.
"Come to that, you never let on it was bamboo you wanted."
"How could I know what I wanted? You rushed me so, you never gave me time to think."
"Oh, I say," said Ranny, "what a tiresome kiddy!"
With that he kissed her, and between the kisses he asked her, with delirious rapidity: "Who gave you a drawing-room suite? Who gave you a nice house? Who let you call it Granville?" But he knew. Nobody, indeed, knew better than Ranny how tight a squeeze it was; and what a horrible misfit for Granville.