"Knives and boots?..." McTaggart choked. "I dare say—if you asked him."
"Hm...." Jill looked a little doubtful. The fur coat had made her think. She mustn't let Peter ruin himself—even on their honeymoon.
In her practical mind she decided to say nothing more till they reached Siena and then take up the reins of the house, with a careful eye on the exchequer.
But all these thoughts were swept aside by the novelty of her arrival on the French coast, the foreign tongue, the stir and bustle of the Customs.
Then came dinner in the train, with strange wine, strange dishes, and their "doll's house" quarters for the night. She revelled in the unexpected.
Slowly the dark swept down, blotting out the sleeping earth, as they rocked along, happily tired, in the warm coup, side by side.
"Time for bed..." said McTaggart at last. "I'm not going to let you chatter all through the night, old lady. It's close upon eleven o'clock!"
"I'm not sleepy a bit," said Jill.
Something in her quick glance roused McTaggart's chivalry—a childish touch of helplessness.
"Look here..." he leaned closer and whispered softly in her ear. For a moment Jill clung to him, her face hidden from his eyes.