She pushed the window wide and, perched on the window-sill with a cup of
tea outside and a piece of toast in her hand, she decided on what she
was going to say to him.
"Louis," she said at last, "I am a wretchedly dissatisfied sort of
person, dear."
He looked at her enquiringly and smiled.
"Louis, can you get up to-day and come out with me?"
He hesitated for a moment. Then he sighed.
"My dear--I don't think it's safe," he said in a low voice.
"Really?"
"Yes, really."
"Well, then, it isn't. But I hate to see you lying here like this. I
want us to go and explore. In that big garden by the waterside it's
gorgeous. And--there's your work."
He flushed a little, struggling with himself. At last he said:
"After all, it's our honeymoon. We can afford to slack a little."
She laughed outright at that. He could not see anything to laugh at.
"It isn't enough for me--slacking. I hate it. I want to do things just
all the time. I want to dig up fields and move hills about, and things
like that. Louis, don't you think we might go up country and be
squatters like uncle?"
"I wouldn't mind being a squatter like your uncle," he said, comfortably
"with fifty quid notes to splash all over the shanty! But you're not
getting tired of me, are you, darling--after last night?" he added
gently.
Pages:
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343