“I have been suggesting a trip into the country, Mrs. Cleves,” he said pleasantly, “—into the real country, somewhere,—a month’s quiet in the woods, perhaps. Wouldn’t it appeal to you?” Cleves turned to catch her low-voiced answer. “I should like it very much,” she said in that odd, hushed way of speaking, which seemed to have altered her own voice and manner since the ceremony a little while before. Driving back to his apartment beside her, he strove to realise that this girl was his wife. One of her gloves lay across her lap, and on it rested a slender hand. And on one finger was his ring. But Victor Cleves could not bring himself to believe that this brand-new ring really signified anything to him,—that it had altered his own life in any way. But always his incredulous eyes returned to that slim finger resting there, unstirring, banded with a narrow circlet of virgin gold. In the apartment they did not seem to know exactly what to do or say—what attitude to assume—what effort to make. Tressa went into her own room, removed her hat and furs, and came slowly back into the living-room, where Cleves still stood gazing absently out of the window. A fine rain was falling. They seated themselves. There seemed nothing better to do. He said, politely: “In regard to going away for a rest, you wouldn’t care for the North Woods, I fancy, unless you like winter sports. Do you?” “I like sunlight and green leaves,” she said in that odd, still voice. “Then, if it would please you to go South for a few weeks’ rest——” “Would it inconvenience you?” Her manner touched him. “My dear Miss Norne,” he began, and checked himself, flushing painfully. The girl blushed, too; then, when he began to laugh, her lovely, bashful smile glimmered for the first time. “I really can’t bring myself to realise that you and I are married,” he explained, still embarrassed, though smiling. Her smile became an endeavour. “I can’t believe it either, Mr. Cleves,” she said. “I feel rather stunned.” “Hadn’t you better call me Victor—under the circumstances?” he suggested, striving to speak lightly. “Yes.... It will not be very easy to say it—not for some time, I think.” “Tressa?” “Yes.” “Yes—_what_?” “Yes—Victor.” “That’s the idea,” he insisted with forced gaiety. “The thing to do is to face this rather funny situation and take it amiably and with good humour. You’ll have your freedom some day, you know.” “Yes—I—know.” “And we’re already on very good terms. We find each other interesting, don’t we?” “Yes.” “It even seems to me,” he ventured, “it certainly seems to me, at times, as though we are approaching a common basis of—of mutual—er—esteem.” “Yes. I—I do esteem you, Mr. Cleves.” “In point of fact,” he concluded, surprised, “we _are_ friends—in a way. Wouldn’t you call it—friendship?” “I think so, I think I’d call it that,” she admitted.