What I had told her seemed to stagger her. It revealed something of intense importance to her—something which, to me, remained hidden.
It was still a complete enigma.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE STRANGER IN THE RUE DE RIVOLI
From Scarborough we had gone up to the Highlands, spending a fortnight at Grantown, a week at Blair Atholl, returning south through Callander and the Trossachs—one of the most glorious autumns I had ever spent.
Ours was now a peaceful, uneventful life, careless of the morrow, and filled with perfect love and concord. I adored my young beautiful wife, and I envied no man.
I had crushed down all feelings of misgivings that had hitherto so often arisen within me, for I felt confident in Sylvia’s affection. She lived only for me, possessing me body and soul.
Not a pair in the whole of England loved each other with a truer or more fervent passion. Our ideas were identical, and certainly I could not have chosen a wife more fitted for me—even though she rested beneath such a dark cloud of suspicion.