“Perhaps.”
“Marriage is not peace—not always.”
“It is better than separation and distance,” he replied. “Where are you and your husband going?”
“Out—to the opera and then to supper somewhere.”
After he went away Lily wrote to Launa and then dressed and went out with her husband. They were so happy when they were together, and his absences, ordered by herself, were so trying—he was kind and strong, moreover he loved her. How terrible if he were to forget, to grow cold! She hardened her heart—her way was the best. She forgot that a day comes when passion must grow cooler; then it is that friendship seasoned by passion takes its place, and makes life rest and sweetness. She was torn with jealousy lest he might care for some other woman, for if he were to, he would not settle down to the dull, assured matrimonial existence when he grew used to her, and probably seek amusement elsewhere. This was her way of keeping his love. She let him see her seldom, not often alone. He heard of her flirtations from herself. She loved him absolutely, and she feared the force of her love might cause his to grow cold, therefore she kept him at a distance and hungered for a sign, for a caress from him, while she never betrayed her feelings.
The next day Launa received the following letter. She was starting for a long walk when it came, and read it on the way.
“My Dearest Launa,—How are you? We are longing to see you. Do come to London. Are you not coming for your music? Mr. Wainbridge was here to-day. He is much concerned, dear, that you do not come back to town. He fears you may be going to Canada to leave us all. Jack is most anxious to see you too. We are still happy, madly, gloriously, interruptedly happy. Interruptions are salutary—they add joy to the everydayness of life. Dear Launa, do come back soon.
“Thine as ever,
“L. H.”