His handsome eyes searched her face; she looked wonderfully sweet and dainty in the moonlight, and with sudden impulse he stooped and took her hand.
"It's a queer sort of honeymoon, Marie Celeste," he said rather hoarsely.
He felt the little hand tremble in his and then suddenly lie very still, but she did not speak, and he went on with an effort to get 76 away from the something tragic of which he was vaguely conscious.
"Are you sorry yet that you married me?"
She shook her head, "Of course not."
He let her hand go, chilled by her words.
"There are heaps of other fellows in the world—better than I, who would have made you happier," he said.
She laughed at that; a little broken laugh of amusement.
"There is nobody else I would have married," she said faintly.
"You say that now, but you're such a kid! In a year or so you'll think very differently."