She glances up, inquiringly.
"The verses you shut your hands over when I came up to you," he explains. "The sad words ring in my head:
"'And we say: "They are wrecked at dawning.
The hopes of our lives, alas!"'
"Did you think, my child, that they applied to your own case?"
"I was tempted to think so—can you blame me?" she says, with a gentle reproach in her voice.
"Do not fall into such despondent thoughts again," he answers, evasively. "You are too young for sorrow, Reine. Look on the bright side of the picture. I foresee that this play will end with my falling desperately in love with my own wife."
"I hope so," she answers, with sudden, piteous earnestness, and a quiver of passionate sorrow in her voice.
"So do I," he says, filled with sudden penitence. "I am sure it cannot be hard to learn to love so fair and noble a wife. You have saved me from my own sinful passions, Reine. I can never forget that."
"And now I must go back," she says, with a bitter sigh of regret. "Uncle Langton will be lonely, and if—if I go to-morrow I have a great deal of packing to do first."
They walk slowly back to the hotel through the murmurous silence of the summer night by the sea, with the strong, sweet smell of the brine in their faces. It is the first time they have been together without cold words from one or the other, the first time her husband has caressed her.