“In winter?”
“Winter is the most pleasant time. It is the season in Bucharest.”
“As you please, dearest,” I replied. “I am entirely in your hands, as you know,” I laughed.
“That’s awfully sweet of you, Owen,” she declared. “You are always indulging me—just like the spoilt child I am.”
“Because I love you,” I replied softly, placing my hand upon hers and looking into her wonderful eyes.
She smiled contentedly, and I saw in those eyes the genuine love-look: the expression which a woman can never feign.
Thus the autumn days went past, happy days of peace and joy.
Sylvia delighted in the theatre, and we went very often, while on days when it was dry and the sun shone, I took her motoring to Brighton, to Guildford, to Tunbridge Wells, or other places on the well-known roads out of London.
The clouds which had first marred our happiness had now happily been dispelled, and the sun of life and love shone upon us perpetually.
Sometimes I wondered whether that ideal happiness was not too complete to last. In the years I had lived I had become a pessimist. I feared a too-complete ideal. The realization of our hopes is always followed by a poignant despair. In this world there is no cup of sweetness without dregs of bitterness. The man who troubles after the to-morrow creates trouble for himself, while he who is regardless of the future is like an ostrich burying its head in the sand at sign of disaster.