“Yes, I’ll come. I’d like to!” Peignton said. He smiled to himself in the dusk at the thought of standing before the altar in the old church, side by side with Teresa Mallison, her hands heaped with white flowers. He wondered if to her, as to him, would come the thought that there might come another occasion when they would stand there for another purpose. As the horse trotted up to the door of Major Mallison’s house, he was mentally seeing a picture of Teresa in her wedding robes, a gauzy veil covering her head.
A moment later as they bade each other goodnight, the light through the opened door fell full upon the face of the real Teresa in her Burberry and knitted cap, and looking at her, Peignton felt a sudden stab of disappointment. The familiar features seemed in mysterious fashion other than those he had expected. Faults of which he had been happily unconscious, obtruded themselves upon his notice. It was almost as if he looked upon the face of a stranger. He walked down the deserted street pondering the mystery, and like other unimaginative men, failed to find an explanation.
How could it have been possible that he had dreamed of another face?
Chapter Three.
Household Words.
Marten Beverley and his wife Grizel confronted each other across the breakfast table. Only the night before they had returned from a protracted, wedding tour, to take possession of their new home. Each was superbly, gloriously happy, but there was a difference in their happiness. Martin was not tired of play, but the zest for work was making itself felt, and he looked forward with joy to the hours at his desk which would give extra delight to the play to follow. Grizel faced work also, but faced it with a grimace. How in the world to settle down, and to be practical, and keep house?
“Here beginneth the second volume!” she chanted dolefully across the breakfast table. “The happy couple return from their honeymoon, and settle down! ... Martin! I don’t want to settle down. Why should one? It’s out of date, anyhow, to have a second volume. Nowadays people live at full pressure, and get it over in one. Let’s go on being foolish, and irresponsible, and taking no thought for our dinner. It’s the only sensible plan. And it would prevent so much disappointment! I’m a daisy as a honeymoon wife, but I’m not a typical British Matron.”
“You don’t look it!” said Martin, and thrusting his hands in his pockets, tilted back in his chair and sat staring across the table, his eyes alight with admiration. A fire blazed in the grate, but Grizel’s morning robe suggested the height of summer. It was composed of some sort of white woollen material, which showed glimpses of a delicate pink lining. She wore a boudoir cap too, a concoction of lace and pink ribbon at once rakish and demure. Martin was certain that she looked a duck, what he was uncertain about was the suitability of such plumage for the mistress of a small ménage. Had he not kept house for eight years with a sister who had visited the larder every morning, and kept a stern eye on stock-pot and bread-pan, clad in the triggest of blouses, and the shortest of plain serge skirts! His eyes twinkled with amusement.