“I should like it very much,” she said in that odd, hushed way of speaking, which seemed to have altered her own voice and manner since the ceremony a little while before.
Driving back to his apartment beside her, he strove to realise that this girl was his wife.
One of her gloves lay across her lap, and on it rested a slender hand. And on one finger was his ring.
But Victor Cleves could not bring himself to believe that this brand-new ring really signified anything to him,—that it had altered his own life in any way. But always his incredulous eyes returned to that slim finger resting there, unstirring, banded with a narrow circlet of virgin gold.
In the apartment they did not seem to know exactly what to do or say—what attitude to assume—what effort to make.
Tressa went into her own room, removed her hat and furs, and came slowly back into the living-room, where Cleves still stood gazing absently out of the window.
A fine rain was falling.
They seated themselves. There seemed nothing better to do.
He said, politely: “In regard to going away for a rest, you wouldn’t care for the North Woods, I fancy, unless you like winter sports. Do you?”
“I like sunlight and green leaves,” she said in that odd, still voice.