“I know what you are to me; I know that in all the world no more gallant gentleman, no braver prince amongst men could live.” “Come, come, Nancy, it is bad to flatter,” he said; but his eyes shone and his lips trembled. “If she only knew!” he said to himself. They drove in the Bois in the afternoon and after dinner went to the opera. Nancy was dressed for the opera in one of her new costumes; it was white, shaded off to the faintest tinge of rose. She looked something like a summer cloud when she was dressed in these billows of diaphanous texture; the pearls round her neck gave the last touch to the dazzling effect. “You look like the heart of a sea-shell,” said her husband; “there, let me look at you from this distance; yes, the effect is perfect. Now again, favour me by standing so. Now you resemble a sunset cloud; you are all poetry, you are a dream. In fact you are a living, walking poem.” “Don’t, Adrian,” she said. “Why do you say ‘don’t’? it is my delight to see how much can be made of unique beauty like yours. To-morrow night you shall be dressed quite differently; to-morrow night that pale sweet face, those dark deep eyes shall gleam in more sombre surroundings, and then my princess will look like a star. Give me my delight, Nancy; don’t refuse it to me.” “But my father is not dead a fortnight,” she said; “I ought to be in mourning for him.” “Tut! not a bit of it; no mourning during our wedding tour. Afterwards you shall be up to your throat in crêpe if you like.” “It is strange of you, Adrian, to say so very much about afterwards; when you say ‘afterwards,’ a cold shiver seems to go through me.” “Faith, child,” he replied, pulling himself together with an effort, “I don’t mean anything. You shall, if I can manage it, walk on roses as long as you live; and now, now, Nance—during our glorious honeymoon, we will not think for one moment of the possibility of a shadow. Come, darling, the carriage must be waiting for us in the courtyard.” They went downstairs in the lift.