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Nan, glancing at him as she entered the carriage, harboured for a moment the startled reflection that if he had a beard nothing could have restrained her just then from screaming and running away. But, fortunately for her quaking dignity, his face, with the exception of those menacing eyebrows, and the lashes that shaded his gloomy eyes, was wholly free from hair.

Driving away from the church with its two clanging bells, she made a resolute effort to shake off the scared feeling that had so possessed her when she had stood at the altar with this man. If she had made a mistake, and even now she was not absolutely certain that she had–it was impossible in that turmoil of conflicting emotions to say–but if she had, it was past remedy, and she must face the consequences without shrinking. She had a conviction that he would domineer over her without mercy if she displayed any fear.

So, bravely hiding her sinking heart, she laughed and chatted for the benefit of her taciturn bridegroom with the gayest inconsequence during the brief drive to her home.

He scarcely replied. He seemed to have something on his mind also. And Nan breathed a little sigh of relief when they reached their destination, and he gravely handed her out.

A litter of telegrams on a table in the old-fashioned hall caught the girl’s attention directly she entered. She pounced upon them with eager zest.

“Ah, here’s one from Jerry Lister. I knew he would be sure to remember. He’s the dearest boy in the world. He would have been here, but for some horrid examination that kept him at Oxford.”

She opened the message impetuously, and began to read it; but suddenly, finding her husband at her side, she desisted, crumpling it in her hand with decidedly heightened colour.

“Oh, he’s quite ridiculous. Let us open some of the others.”

She thrust a sheaf into his hand, and busied herself with the remainder.

He did not attempt to open any of them, but stood silently watching her glowing face as she opened one after another and tossed them down.

Suddenly she raised her eyes, and met his look fully, with a certain pride.

“Is anything the matter?”

He pointed quite calmly to the scrap of paper she held crumpled in her hand.

“Are you not going to read that?” he asked, in slow, rather careful English.

Her colour deepened; it rose to her forehead in a burning wave.

“Presently,” she returned briefly.

His eyes held hers with a curious insistence.

“You need not be afraid,” he said very quietly; “I shall not try to look over.”

Nan stared at him, too amazed for speech. The hot blood ebbed from her face as swiftly as it had risen, leaving her as white as the orange-blossoms in her hair.

At length suddenly, with a passionate gesture, she thrust out her hand to him with the ball of paper on her palm.

“Pray take it and read it,” she said, her voice quivering with anger, “since it interests you so much.”

He made no movement to comply.

“I do not wish to read it, Anne,” he said gravely.

Her lip curled. It was the first time he had ever called her by her Christian name, and there was something exceedingly formal in the way he uttered it now. Moreover, no one ever called her anything but Nan. For some reason she was hotly indignant at this unfamiliar mode of address. It increased her anger against him tenfold.

“Take it and read it!” she reiterated, with stubborn persistence. “I wish you to do so!”

The first carriage-load of guests was approaching the house as she spoke. Cradock paused for a single instant as if irresolute, then, without more ado, he took her at her word. He smoothed the paper out without the smallest change of countenance, and read it, while she stood quivering with impotent fury by his side. It was a long telegram, and it took some seconds to read; but he did not look up till he had mastered it.