“Had Madonna Laura resembled Madonna Helen, the worthy Petrarch would have had her in his arms before she had the chance,” laughed Armstrong, improving his opportunity as he spoke.
“Very gallant, Jack, but very improper.” Helen pursed her lips and looked up at him mischievously. “But let us forget your musty old antiquities and talk of the present. Do you realize that this is the end of our honeymoon?”
“No,” he replied, holding her more closely and laughing down at her; “it has only just begun.”
“Of course,” assented Helen, disengaging herself, “but to-morrow we are to exchange the very romantic titles of ‘bride’ and ‘bridegroom’ for the much more commonplace ‘host’ and ‘hostess.’”
“Oh! I am relieved that you are not going to divorce me at once.” Armstrong was amused at her seriousness. “But it was your idea to invite them to join us, was it not?”
“I know it was—and now I must make a confession to you. I thought that in five weeks we both would be glad enough to have some little break in our love-making. But I did not realize how rapidly five weeks could pass. Still”—Helen sighed—“what is the use of having a villa in Florence unless you can invite your friends to see it?”
“Then you have not become tired of your husband as soon as you thought you would?”
“Nor you of your wife?” Helen retorted, quickly. “Mamma suggested it first. She said that so long a wedding trip as we had planned was sure to end with one or both of us becoming hopelessly bored unless we introduced other characters into our Garden of Eden.”
“Did she say ‘Garden of Eden’? That family party included a serpent, if rumor be correct.”
The girl laughed.