"I should like to take you to Italy," Chris said one day, but Marie shook her head.
"No—not Italy—I never want to go there."
He wondered a little at the time, and it was only some days afterwards that he understood, and the old jealousy of his friend that still slumbered deep in his heart stirred.
He knew that Feathers' death had left a mark on Marie's life that neither time nor the greatness of his love could ever quite efface; sometimes still, its memory would rise up like a great black wave and overwhelm her.
And yet she was happy—happier than she had ever been in her life, even though she felt she was looking at life and the beauties of the world through the sad eyes of a bitter experience.
It was a surprise to Chris when one day she told him that she would like to go back to England. It was early June then, and they were at Lucerne, and the snow was beginning to melt on the mountain sides, and little bright colored flowers were springing up everywhere.
The desire to return had often been in Chris' heart, but not for the world would he have said so. Marie was everything in his life now—he could not bear her out of his sight.
"Tired of Lucerne?" he asked.
"No—but I think I would like to go home."
"London in June is appalling," Chris said. "Why not stay on here a month or two longer and then go up to Scotland. You've never been 311 to Scotland, Marie Celeste?"