“How do you like my dress?” she asked.
Mr. Wainbridge inspected her critically.
“It is too black,” he said.
It fell in long straight folds made of some soft black material. It was becoming and yet dreary, like the robe of a sister of charity.
“It suits you; but you look like a widow.”
“Death,” she said; “how unlucky of you to say that! I dreamed of a coffin last night—my own—and I was getting in and out of it to see if it fitted.”
“Dearest, you and I shall always be together.”
“Always?” she repeated, with a little shiver, as if some ghost of the past was near, “always.”
Already his mind did not answer hers. She did not want him always.
“It was a horrid dream. It frightened me.”