“Can’t it? Why not? We’ll just see. But at any rate we must try to be comfortable as well as happy. And for comfort, more than bare walls and boards are needed.”
“The Nest,” as Marian called the little flat, was quickly put into habitable order, though in accordance with her wish only essentials were bought en bloc and details were left over for gradual treatment. It was a cozy nest: a tiny drawing room where the prevailing colors were gold and green: a brown and red dining room; the bedroom a bower of blue and white; a neat entrance hall, which Maddison had fitted up with dark wainscoting which he had bought from an old farmhouse.
Meanwhile Marian stayed at an hotel, spending long hours every day with Maddison, at his studio or shopping with him; watching the progress made at “The Nest”; dining with him every night at various restaurants, reveling in her luxurious freedom. But he soon tired of this vagabondish life, which had not any novelty for him, and she discreetly made pretense of sharing his desire for quiet and of rejoicing with him when the day came for her installation in her new domain.
It was with a sense almost of nervousness that he dressed on the first evening that she was to be his hostess. The night was dark though the sky was full of stars; the air was keen and frosty. As he walked along, the feeling of shyness grew stronger; it was almost as if he had been a lover going forth to woo. How great a part of his life Marian had become! It was not merely her beauty that he loved: there was so much of refinement and, as he believed, such utter sincerity in her, that she had caught firm hold of him. He must not hurt her by word or look or deed.
The drawing room was empty when he entered it, and he glanced impatiently at the clock, thinking that women are always late. He stepped across toward her bedroom, but again the sense of shyness took hold on him; he stopped. There seemed to him now to be something gross about such familiarity. Then the door opened and Marian came quietly in, radiantly lovely in a soft, clinging gown of dull crimson and flame-color, a red chrysanthemum in her hair; a bright flush on her cheeks, a look of glad welcome in her eyes.
“Isn’t it nice, George?” she said, taking his hands in her own and looking up merrily. “Our little nest. I’ve been exploring it all day, as though I didn’t know everything in it; trying all the chairs, strumming on the piano, tasting everything as it were—and doesn’t it taste sweet? Thank you—thank you—thank you——!”
He held her face close to his; the scent of her hair, the warmth of her breath intoxicated him as he kissed her and pressed her close.
“You do love me, really love me, George?”
He kissed her again.
“I do, my dear, I do. You’re a witch. I often thought I should never love any woman really, though I very nearly loved you when you were a little country girl. Then you come along and just wind yourself into my life and make me forget everything except you.”