A loud burst of laughter from the drawing-room comes through the half-open door, and then a few bars of rollicking life stirring music that changes into a rhythmic mournful waltz.
Addie's eyes close, and presently her spirit wanders back to a certain day of sunny girlhood, when they all drank her health in bumpers of raspberry vinegar, and Teddy—bright Teddy Lefroy—knotted a silk handkerchief round her young throat, and, with his lips to her blushing ear, murmured fondly—
"Many happy returns, sweet Cousin Addie!"
She feels the clasp of his warm fingers on her neck, feels his lips brushing her cheek, and slowly opens her eyes to see her husband's swarthy face bending over hers. She does not start or speak a word, but just remains for a moment as she is, looking straight into his grave inquiring eyes, smiling faintly, rosy with sleep.
"Am I welcome?" he asks softly.
"I have missed you," she says—"missed you every day. You are welcome."
She rises heavily, rubs the sleep from her eyes, and puts her hands in his.
"What brings you here alone? Where are the others? Why are you not with them?" he asks, frowningly scrutinizing her face.
"The others are all rehearsing for the theatricals to-morrow night—a dress rehearsal—and they would not let me into the drawing-room. I—I felt sad in my own room, and there was such a smell of roast mutton in the dining room that I came here to rest after my walk. I did not know you would arrive, or I would not have intruded. I will go if I am in the way."
He looks at her again, sharply, earnestly, and notices a glazy brightness about her eyes and a quiver almost of pain about her mouth that tells him his absence has not brought the rest and peace he hoped it would.