They live in a world of romance before the marriage day. The man seems to walk on air when he crosses London Bridge on his way to the City. Or if he is a barrister he sees the beauty of his girl’s face in his brief--and is in danger of losing his case. Or if a journalist he curses his irregular hours which keep him from the little house in Tulse Hill, or the flat in Hampstead, where there is a love-light in the windows. He knows the outward look of the girl, her softness, her prettiness, her shy glance when he greets her. He knows her teasing ways, her tenderness, her vivacity. Only now and then he is startled by her stupidity, or by her innocence, or by her ignorance, or--still more startling--by her superior wisdom of the ways of the world, by her shrewd little words, by a sudden revelation of knowledge about things which girls are not supposed to know. But these things do not count. Only sentiment and romance are allowed to count. These two people who are about to start on the long road of life together are utterly blind to each other’s vices or virtues. They are deeply ignorant of each other’s soul. They know nothing of the real man or the real woman hidden beneath the mask of social conventions, beneath the delightful, sham of romantic affection. They know nothing of their own souls, nor of the strength that is in them to stand the test of life’s realities. They know nothing of their own weakness. So they marry. And for the first year they are wonderfully happy. For the first year is full of excitement. They thrill to the great adventure of marriage. They are uplifted with passionate love which seems likely to last for ever. They have a thousand little interests. Even the trivialities of domesticity are immensely important. Even the little disasters of domesticity are amusing. They find a lot of laughter in life. They laugh at the absurd mistakes of the servant-maids who follow in quick succession. They laugh at their own ridiculous miscalculations with regard to the expense of house-keeping. They laugh when visitors call at awkward moments and when the dinner is spoilt by an inefficient cook. After all, the comradeship of a young man and wife is the best thing in life, and nothing else seems to matter. They are such good comrades that the husband never leaves his wife a moment in his leisure time. He takes her to the theatre with him. They spend week-ends together, far from the madding crowd. They pluck the flowers of life, hand in hand, as lovers. The first year merges into the second. Not yet do they know each other. CHAPTER II