“The thing is past,” she said with a smile. “But I must tell you; I cannot keep a secret from you on our wedding night. For a moment, Adrian, I—I who love you with passion, with devotion, with a love which seems to me to pass the love of any ordinary woman, I felt that I _hated_ you—for a moment you became intolerable to me; I shrank from your face—you reminded me in some incomprehensible way of Anthony.” “Of Anthony!” exclaimed Rowton. “Who is Anthony?” “My brother Anthony. Oh! we must not speak of him.” “Had you a brother named Anthony?” asked Rowton. “I had. He is dead. I never care to talk of him. You look queer, Adrian; did you ever know anyone of that name?” “Yes, I once met a man of the name. He passed into my life and passed out of it; I have a somewhat disagreeable reminiscence of him. Let us go downstairs, Nance; why should we stay here alone?” “But it is our wedding night,” she answered. She went to his side, put her arms round his neck and laid her fair soft head on his breast. “Look me in the face, little girl,” said her husband. He placed his hand under her chin and raised her charming face, gazing full into the lovely eyes which she raised to his. “You don’t hate your husband now, do you?” “No, no, no!” she reiterated. “It was a passing sensation, just a momentary queer stirring in my heart; it came when I suddenly remembered that we were in Paris for our honeymoon. The fact is this, Adrian. Since father’s death I have been in a whirl, and it was only a few minutes ago that I suddenly remembered Paris in connection with⸺ Oh! there is something I must never say to you—the thought rather overpowered me for a moment, and I remembered poor dead Anthony. I won’t speak of him again. Yes, I love you, my darling, my best, my noblest. Adrian, I mean to be a good wife to you.” “Just go on loving me, Nance, and I shall want nothing further,” he replied. “No one else loves me, and although I am a hard, dare-devil sort of chap, I hunger for love—the soft beautiful love of a good woman. You are a good woman, my angel, and you are mine; you love me and I love you; just bathe me in your love, sweetheart, and I ask for nothing further. A perfect wife I do not want—I do not look for a perfect wife, but I do want a wife whose whole heart is mine, who is mine absolutely.” “And I am yours, absolutely,” she answered. “I can be fiercely jealous,” he continued. “If I thought you gave any part of yourself to anybody or anything but me, I don’t know what I wouldn’t do. Even if you gave your love to a dead man, Nance, I should be jealous—and jealousy with me would be fierce—I am all fierce passion. The side I turn to you, my darling, is almost angel, for you make it so, but all the rest of me is demon; you must keep that little angel bit of me alive, and you will, if you love me with your whole complete entire heart.”