“It looked so awfully unbusinesslike. The sealing-wax and the funny writing—much more like a woman’s than a man’s.” He laughed. He folded the letter, put it in his pocket and picked up the envelope. “Yes,” he said, “it is queer, isn’t it. I shouldn’t have noticed. How quick you are! But it does look exactly like a woman’s hand. The capital R, for instance”—he flipped the envelope across to her. “Yes, and that squiggle underneath. I should have said a rather uneducated female....” “As a matter of fact,” said Hugh, “he’s a mining engineer.” And he got up, began to stretch and then stopped. “I say, what a glorious morning! Why do I have to go to the office instead of staying at home and playing with you?” And he came over to her and locked his arms round her neck. “Tell me that, little lovely one.” “Oh,” she leaned against him, “I wish you could. Life’s arranged badly for people like you and me. And now you’re going to be late this evening.” “Never mind,” said he. “All the rest of the time’s ours. Every single bit of it. We shan’t come back from the theatre to find——” “Our porch black with mining engineers.” She laughed. Did other people—could other people—was it possible that any one before had ever loved as they loved? She squeezed her head against him—she heard his watch ticking—precious watch! “What are those purple floppy flowers in my bedroom?” he murmured. “Petunias.” “You smell exactly like a petunia.” And he raised her up. She drew towards him. “Kiss me,” said he. * * * * * It was her habit to sit on the bottom stair and watch his final preparations. Strange it should be so fascinating to see someone brush his hat, choose a pair of gloves, and give a last quick look in the round mirror. But it was the same when he was shaving. Then she loved to curl up on the hard little couch in his dressing room; she was as absorbed, as intent as he. How fantastic he looked, like a pierrot, like a mask, with those dark eyebrows, liquid eyes and the brush of flesh colour on his cheek-bones above the lather! But that was not her chief feeling. No, it was what she felt on the stairs, too. It was, “So this is my husband, so this is the man I’ve married, this is the stranger who walked across the lawn that afternoon swinging his tennis racket and bowed, rolling up his shirt-sleeves. This is not only my lover and my husband, but my brother, my dearest friend, my playmate, even at times a kind of very perfect father too. And here is where we live. Here is his room—and here is our hall.” She seemed to be showing their house and him to her other self, the self she had been before she had met him. Deeply admiring, almost awed by so much happiness, that other self looked on....