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Hereford Wingarde, standing by his wife’s side, the recipient of congratulations from crowds of people who seemed to be her intimate friends, but whom he had never seen before, noted that salute of Archie Neville’s with a very slight lift of his black brows. He noted also that Nina returned it, and that her hand lingered in that of the young man longer than in those of any of her other friends. It was a small circumstance, but it stuck in his memory.

A house had been lent them for the honeymoon by one of Nina’s wealthy friends in the Lake District. They arrived there hard upon midnight, having dined on board the train.

A light meal awaited them, to which they immediately sat down.

“You are tired,” Wingarde said, as the lamplight fell upon his bride’s flushed face and bright eyes.

His own eyes were critical. She laughed and turned aside from them.

“I am not at all tired,” she said. “I am only sorry the journey is over. I miss the noise.”

He made no further comment. He had a disconcerting habit of dropping into sudden silences. It took possession of him now, and they finished their refreshment with scarcely a word.

Then Nina rose, holding her head very high. He embarrassed her, and she strongly resented being embarrassed.

Wingarde at once rose also. He looked more massive than usual, almost as if braced for a particular effort.

“Going already?” he said. “Good-night!”

“Good-night!” said Nina.

She glanced at him with momentary indecision. Then she held out her hand.

He took it and kept it.

“I think you will have to kiss me on our wedding night,” he said.

She turned very white. The hunted look had returned to her eyes. She answered him with the rapidity of desperation.

“You can do as you like with me now,” she said. “I am not able to prevent you.”

“You mean you would rather not?” he said, without the smallest hint of anger or disappointment in his tone.

She started a little at the question. There was no escaping the searching of his eyes.

“Of course I would rather not,” she said.

He released her quivering hand and walked quietly to the door.

“Good-night, Nina!” he said, as he opened it.

She stood for a moment before she realized that he had yielded to her wish. Then, as he waited, she made a sudden impulsive movement towards him.

Her fingers rested for an instant on his arm.

“Good-night–Hereford!” she said.

He looked down at her hand, not offering to touch it. His lips relaxed cynically.

“Don’t overwhelm me!” he said.

And in a flash she had passed him with blazing eyes and a heart that was full of fierce anger. So this was his reception of her first overture! Her cheeks burnt as she vowed to herself that she would attempt no more.

She did not see her husband again that night.

When they met in the morning, he seemed to have forgotten that they had parted in a somewhat strained atmosphere. The only peculiarity about his greeting was that it did not seem to occur to him to shake hands.

“There is plenty to do if you’re feeling energetic,” he said. ‘Driving, riding, mountaineering, boating; which shall it be?”

“Have you no preference?” she asked, as she faced him over the coffee-urn.

He smiled slightly.

“Yes, I have,” he said. “But let me hear yours first!”

“Driving,” she said at once. “And now yours?”

“Mine was none of these things,” he answered. “I wonder what sort of conveyance they can provide us with? Also what manner of horse? Are you going to drive or am I? Mind, you are to state your preference.”

“Very well,” she answered. “Then I’ll drive, please, I know this country a little. I stayed near here three years ago with the Nevilles. Archie and I used to fish.”

“Did you ever catch anything?” Wingarde asked, with his quiet eyes on her face.

“Of course we did,” she answered. “Salmon trout–beauties. Oh, and other things. I forget what they were called. We had great fun, I remember.”