“You are to wear your wedding dress, and behave yourself like a sweet young bride, and do credit to yourself, and to me, and to your husband’s books! When you go to Rome, do as the Romans do.”
When the night of the dinner arrived the sweet young bride repaired to her husband’s dressing-room en route from the bathroom to her own apartment, and squatted on the floor to watch him shave, with her white gown wrapped around a foam of lacey under-garments, and her white shoes kicked off on to the rug. She looked young, and fresh, and blooming, and brought with her a delicious odour of violets, and it appeared to afford her intense satisfaction to watch Martin lather his chin, and twist it from side to side for the convenience of the safety razor.
“Darling, you do look plain! I love you dreadfully when I see you shave. All that trouble to spare me a beard! ... Don’t cut yourself, like a precious. I do so object to bits of cotton-wool... Doesn’t it feel nice and married to have me sitting here, watching you, in my bare tootsies, and knowing that even the Vicaress herself could not object? She’ll be there to-night, you know. What will she wear?—A black satin, cut in a V, with a pendant of agate, and a cap with an aigrette. Dear thing! I must remember to enquire for the Mothers’ Meeting.”
Martin, his chin violently undulating, murmured a word which was evidently of a warning nature, but Grizel took no notice. Her hands were clasped round her knees, she was smiling, in a soft reflective fashion.
“No,” she said slowly, “no! this first year must be just for ourselves.—I am so thankful that Katrine is away and so happy, for our own sakes, as well as her own. I am thankful there are no other near relatives to trouble about. I don’t want Anyone to come between us this first year, not even—that! A year or two alone together we must have, and then,—we’ll pray for twins!”
Martin’s sureness of hand alone saved him from the necessity of cotton-wool. He turned round, smiling, lathered, twinkling with humour.
“Why be so greedy? Surely one—”
“No, no—two would be twice as nice. You get on so slowly with one at a time.” She bent her head still lower, so that her chin rested upon her knees; her golden eyes stared into space, her shoulders heaved with a regretful sigh. “No,” she said at last, “no! I suppose it would not do. Triplets are vulgar, but oh, Martin, think of it!—three ducks, all in a row, each with its long white tail, and its little ribbons round its wrists, and its little gold sovereign hanging round its neck... The Queen’s Bounty! And oh, Martin, think, think! what an advertisement for your books... It would be in all the papers. ‘Mrs Martin Beverley, wife of the well-known novelist, yesterday became the mother of three daughters. (They must be daughters!) Later enquiries at the house elicited the news that the mother and family were all doing well.’”
“Really, Grizel! really!” cried Martin, protesting. “You make me blush.”
“Oh, well!” Grizel sighed, and rose to her feet in one swift, astonishingly agile movement. “Bear up. There’s no use getting agitated before the time. It might be only twins!”