iour, speech, appearance, to chat of with her husband,
so as to keep thought away. For Gyp, her dress, first worn that day,
Betty's breakdown, the faces, blank as hats, of the registrar and clerk,
were about all she had to distract her. She stole a look at her husband,
clothed in blue serge, just opposite. Her husband! Mrs. Gustav Fiorsen!
No! People might call her that; to herself, she was Ghita Winton. Ghita
Fiorsen would never seem right. And, not confessing that she was afraid
to meet his eyes, but afraid all the same, she looked out of the window.
A dull, bleak, dismal day; no warmth, no sun, no music in it--the Thames
as grey as lead, the willows on its banks forlorn.

Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. She had not seen his face like that
before--yes; once or twice when he was playing--a spirit shining though.
She felt suddenly secure. If it stayed like that, then!--His hand rested
on her knee; his face changed just a little; the spirit seemed to waver,
to be fading; his lips grew fuller. He crossed over and sat beside her.
Instantly she began to talk about their house, where they were going to
put certain things--presents and all that. He, too, talked of the house;
but every now and then he glanced at the corridor, and muttered. It
was pleasant to feel that the thought of her possessed him through
and through, but she was tremulously glad of that corridor. Life is
mercifully made up of little things! And Gyp was always able to live in
the moment. In the hours they had spent together, up to now, he had been
like a starved man snatching hasty meals; now that he had her to himself
for good, he was another creature altogether--like a boy out of school,
and kept her laughing nearly all the time.

Presently he got down his practise violin, and putting on the mute,
played, looking at her over his shoulder with a droll smile. She felt
happy, much warmer at heart, now. And when his face was turned away, she
looked at him. He was so much better looking now than when he had those
little whiskers. One day she had touched one of them and said: "Ah! if
only these wings could fly!" Next morning they had flown. His face was
not one to be easily got used to; she was not used to it yet, any more
than she was used to his touch. When it grew dark, and he wanted to draw
down the blinds, she caught him by the sleeve, and said:

"No, no; they'll know we're honeymooners!"

"Well, my Gyp, and are we not?"

But he obeyed; only, as th