“Where’s your sense of relativity, beloved?” said he. “In Central Russia one regards the coast of Wales as fantastic fairyland.” “Still, you can go to Llandudno to-morrow, if you like—taking me with you, of course; but I shall never swim in the Volga, or the Caspian Sea, or Lake Baikal, or any of those places with names that have haunted me since I was a little girl.” “One of these days we’ll go—it may be some years, but eventually Russia must have a settled Government—and we’ll still be young.” The sun and the hot sand on which she lay, adorable in deep red bathing kit and cap, warmed her through and through, flooding her with the sense of physical well-being. It was impossible that she should ever grow old. “It’s something to look forward to,” she said. Sometimes they hired a boat and sailed and fished. She admired his handiness and knowledge and prescience of the weather. Once, as the result of their fishing, they brought in a basket of bass and gar-fish, the latter a strange, dainty silver beast with the body of an eel and the tail of a trout and the beak of a woodcock, and in high spirits they usurped Myra’s railway-compartment kitchen, while he fried the catch for lunch. Olivia marvelled at his mastery. In spite of her sage and deliberate putting aside of the rose-coloured glasses of infatuation, in whatever aspect she viewed him, he stood supreme. From the weaving of high romance to the cooking of fish—the whole gamut of human activities—there was nothing in which he did not excel. Her trust in him was infinite. She lost herself in happiness. It took some days to arouse her to a sense of the outer world. A letter from Lydia reminded her of her friend’s pleasant ignorance. With the malice of the unregenerate feminine, she wrote: “I’m so sorry I can’t be bridesmaid as you had arranged. How can I, seeing that I am married myself? It happened all in a hurry, as the beautiful things in life do. The fuss of publicity would have spoilt it. That’s why we told nobody. This is much better than Dinard”—Sydney Rooke’s selection for the honeymoon. “I haven’t worn a hat since I’ve been here, and my way of dressing for dinner is to put on a pair of stockings; sometimes a mackintosh, for we love to dine on the veranda when it rains. It rained so hard last night that we had to fix up an umbrella to the ceiling like a chandelier to catch the water coming through the roof. So you will see that Alexis and I are perfectly happy. By the way, I’ve not told you what my name is. It is Mrs. Triona. . . .” And so on and so on at the dictate of her dancing gladness, freakishly picturing Lydia’s looks of surprise, distaste, and reprobation as she read the letter. Yet she finished graciously, acknowledging Lydia’s thousand kindnesses, for according to her lights Lydia had done her best to put her on the only path that could be trod by comely and well-dressed woman.