“Well, why not?” she answered half seriously. “When I was a child I used to delight in fairy stories; in fact, I lived in an atmosphere of fairyland. I remember the time when the account of Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella made me positively thrill every time I heard it. Then when I outgrew that stage, I got into the habit of idealizing the most trivial incidents: of finding the romantic side to quite prosaic things.”
“On the ‘Sermons in stones; and good in everything’ principle, I suppose?”
“Yes. And now I’m told that it all came from dyspepsia or the liver. No wonder Major Denham is a bachelor. He could not hold such a pernicious theory had he ever loved.”
“You are married,” he said provokingly. “You speak from experience.”
“That doesn’t always follow,” she rejoined, with a sigh. “But of course you cannot know. You, too, are a bachelor.”
Herbert thought the conversation was drifting into an undesirable channel.
“How philosophic we are,” he remarked, leaning back in the carriage to stifle a yawn. “At two o’clock in the morning, too.”
Repelled once again, Lady Marjorie relapsed into silence. Presently a dog-cart passed the carriage coming from the opposite direction. To Karne it had the appearance of his own, but having given orders to Roberts not to fetch him, he came to the conclusion that he was mistaken.
Suddenly his companion gave a slight involuntary shiver.
Karne drew her cloak further around her shoulders. “What is the matter?” he asked kindly. “Are you cold?”