At first, on sitting down to table, we had grown momentarily shy, with one of those sudden freaks of self-consciousness which occasionally surprise one, when, midway in some slightly unconventional situation to which the innocence of nature has led us, we realise it—"for an instant and no more."
Positively, I think that in the embarrassment of that instant I had made some inspired remark to Rosalind about the lovely country which lay dreamy in the afterglow outside our window. Oh, yes, I remember the very words. They were "What a heavenly landscape!" or something equally striking.
"Yes," Rosalind had answered, "it is almost as beautiful as the Strand!"
If I'd known her better, I should have exclaimed, "You dear!" and I think it possible that I did say something to that effect,—perhaps "You dear woman!" At all events, the veil of self-consciousness was rent in twain at that remark, and our spirits rushed together at this touch of London nature thus unexpectedly revealed.
London! I hadn't realised till this moment how I had been missing it all these days of rustication, and my heart went out to it with a vast homesickness.
"Yes! the Strand," I repeated tenderly, "the Strand—at night!"
"Indeed, yes! what is more beautiful in the whole world?" she joined in ardently.
"The wild torrents of light, the passionate human music, the hansoms, the white shirts and shawled heads, the theatres—"
"Don't speak of them or you'll make me cry," said Rosalind.
"The little suppers after the theatre—"