“Nervous? What's there to be nervous about?” Rose's answer was stifled sobbing. “You're not sorry you married today, I hope?” She shook her head. “Then what's this mean, anyway?” “I was wondering if we are going to be happy after all--” “Happy? You don't like this place. That's the trouble. I was afraid of this, but I thought you knew what you were about when you said you could stand it for a while.” “Oh, it isn't the house itself, Martin,” she hastened to correct truthfully, sure that she had gone too far. “I--I--know we'll be happy.” Again this talk about happiness. He did not like it. He had never hunted for happiness, and he was contented. Why should she persist in this eternal search for this impossible condition? He supposed that occasionally children found themselves in it, but surely grown-ups could not expect it. The nearest they could approach it was in forgetting that there was such a state by finding solace in constant occupation. “Let's eat,” he announced. “I'm sick of this wrangling. Seems to me you're not starting off just right.” Rose hastened to prepare the meal, finding it more difficult to be cheerful as she realized how indifferent Martin was to her feelings, if only she presented a smooth surface. He had not seemed even to notice how orderly and freshened everything was. She thought of the new experience soon to be hers. Could it make up for all the understanding and friendly appreciation that she saw only too clearly would be missing in her daily life? Resolutely, she suppressed her doubts. Martin, bothered by an odd feeling of strangeness in the midst of his own familiar surroundings, smoked his pipe in silence and studied Rose soberly. Why, he asked himself, was he unmoved by a woman who was so attractive? He liked the deftness with which her hands worked the pie dough, the quick way she moved between stove and table, yet mingled with this admiration was a slight but distinct hostility. How can one like and have an aversion to a person at the same time? he pondered. “I suppose,” he concluded grimly, “it's because I'm supposed to love and adore her--to pretend a lot of extravagant feelings.” His mind travelled to the stock in the pasture. How stolid they were and how matter of fact and how sensible. They affected no high, nonsensical sentiments. Weren't they, after all, to be envied, rooted as they were in their solid simplicity? Why should human beings everlastingly try so hard to be different? He and Rose would have to get down to a genuine basis, and the quicker the better. Meanwhile he must remember that, whether he was glad or sorry, she was there, in his shack, because he had asked her to come. As he ate his second helping of the excellent meal, he said pleasantly: “You do know how to cook, Rose.” Her soft gray-blue eyes brightened. “I love to do it,” she answered quickly. “You must tell me the things you like best, Martin. If I had a real stove with a good oven, I could do much better.”