Then for a season there were three happy people, at least, in this war-wilderness of suffering. The newly wedded pair went off for a honeymoon, whose promise of indefinite length was eventually cut short by an unromantic War Office. Oliver returned to his regiment in France and Peggy to the Deanery, where she sat among her wedding presents and her hopes for the future.
“I never realized, my dear,” said the Dean to his wife, “what a remarkably pretty girl Peggy has grown into.”
“It’s because she has got the man she loves,” said Mrs. Conover.
“Do you think that’s the reason?”
“I’ve known the plainest of women become quite good-looking. In the early days of our married life”—she smiled—“even I was not quite unattractive.”
The old Dean bent down—she was sitting and he standing—and lifted her chin with his forefinger.
“You, my dear, have always been by far the most beautiful woman of my acquaintance.”
“We’re talking of Peggy,” smiled Mrs. Conover.
“Ah!” said the Dean. “So we were. I was saying that the child’s happiness was reflected in her face——”
“I rather thought I said it, dear,” replied Mrs. Conover.