"Share with me whatever amuses you, please!" she insisted. "Never with my consent shall you ever again laugh alone."
"You haven't seen last evening's and this morning's papers," he said, amused.
"Have they arrived? Oh, Jim! I wish to see them, please!"
He went into his room and brought out a sheaf of clippings.
"Isn't this all of the papers that you cared to see, Jacqueline?"
"Of course! What do they say about us? Are they brief or redundant, laconic or diffuse? And are they nice to us?"
She was already immersed in a quarter column account of "A Romantic Wedding" at "old St. George's"; and she read with dilated eyes all about the "wealthy, fashionable, and well-known clubman," which she understood must mean her youthful husband, and all about Silverwood and the celebrated collections, and about his lineage and his social activities. And by and by she read about herself, and her charm and beauty and personal accomplishments, and was amazed to learn that she, too, was not only wealthy and fashionable, but that she was a descendant of an ancient and noble family in France, entirely extinguished by the guillotine during the Revolution, except for her immediate progenitors.
Clipping after clipping she read to the end; then the simple notices under "Weddings." Then she looked at Desboro.
"I—I didn't realise what a very grand young man I had married," she said, with a shy smile. "But I am very willing to admit it. Why do they say such foolish and untrue things about me?"