He had been extravagant certainly; what churl would not be for his wedding day? But what happiness those preparations had given him! How he had frowningly scrutinised the rooms, to be quite sure that no single corner presented a less pleasing appearance than could by any possible ingenuity be given to it! How, in imagination, he had followed her with his eyes as she tripped through the rooms in her bird-like way, stopping to hover over the flowers, to eat a strawberry, to draw aside the curtains and peep out from her new nest into the street! How he had stood at the door of the bedchamber as in a sanctuary, with his heart full of a wish, devout as a prayer, that the child-woman who was coming to his arms might know no sorrow from which a strong man’s love could save her! And now by some shadowy calamity that he did not yet understand, it was all changed, the sweet home-coming was spoilt, and he stood before his newly-made wife with no absorbing tenderness in his eyes, but with anxiety, suspicion, and fear struggling under the mask of apparent sternness, which was the outward sign of his efforts at self-control. Nouna was alone, lying on the couch as he had so often by anticipation pictured her. She was curled up prettily enough, her head back upon the side, which was soft enough to serve for a cushion. The drapery of her arms was drawn carefully down, but the left hand, with its tiny gold ring, was placed proudly _en évidence_ against her white sash. She looked flushed, shy, and rather frightened, and gave a little nervous laugh and a timid smile as he came in, which would have enchanted him but for the unexplained sights and sounds which had preceded his entrance. “Who was that with you, Nouna?” he asked gently enough, but without coming nearer to her than the door, which he had just shut. “With me!” she exclaimed, raising her eyebrows very innocently. “Yes, dear. I heard some one scuffling about in here and talking just as I came in. Now, Nouna, my darling, why don’t you tell me?” he asked very softly, coming a step nearer. But she curled herself up in the corner of the couch, and looked up at him like a marmoset who has broken a Dresden cup--for a marmoset knows Dresden, and prefers it as a plaything to the ordinary breakfast china. “Don’t look like that. You frighten me,” she said in a low voice, with an inclination divided between weeping and running away. George came and knelt by her, but as she shrank back he did not offer to touch her. “Listen to me, little one. I am not angry, only sorry you will not tell me what I ask. Who was the woman I heard talking to you just now? Was it your mother?” “Mamma! Oh, no, no, no,” said she with a convincing accent of astonishment. “I tell you there wasn’t anybody; I was singing to myself,” she added with less appearance of sincerity.