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On that particular morning in March he had gone to an early parade without seeing her, for there had been a regimental ball the night before, and she had danced every dance. Dancing seemed her one passion, and to Merryon, who did not dance, the ball had been an unmitigated weariness. He had at last, in sheer boredom, joined a party of bridge-players, with the result that he had not seen much of his young wife throughout the evening.

Returning from the parade-ground, he wondered if he would find her up, and then caught sight of her waving away the marauders in scanty attire on the veranda.

He called a greeting to her, and she instantly vanished into her room. He made his way to the table set in the shade of the cluster-roses, and sat down to await her.

She remained invisible, but her voice at once accosted him. “Good-morning, Billikins! Tell the khit you’re ready! I shall be out in two shakes.”

None but she would have dreamed of bestowing so frivolous an appellation upon the sober Merryon. But from her it came so naturally that Merryon scarcely noticed it. He had been “Billikins” to her throughout the brief three months that had elapsed since their marriage. Of course, Mrs. Paget disapproved, but then Mrs. Paget was Mrs. Paget. She disapproved of everything young and gay.

Merryon gave the required order, and then sat in stolid patience to await his wife’s coming. She did not keep him long. Very soon she came lightly out and joined him, an impudent smile on her sallow little face, dancing merriment in her eyes.

“Oh, poor old Billikins!” she said, commiseratingly. “You were bored last night, weren’t you? I wonder if I could teach you to dance.”

“I wonder,” said Merryon.

His eyes dwelt upon her in her fresh white muslin. What a child she looked! Not pretty–no, not pretty; but what a magic smile she had!

She sat down at the table facing him, and leaned her elbows upon it. “I wonder if I could!” she said again, and then broke into her sudden laugh.

“What’s the joke?” asked Merryon.

“Oh, nothing!” she said, recovering herself. “It suddenly came over me, that’s all–poor old Mother Paget’s face, supposing she had seen me last night.”

“Didn’t she see you last night? I thought you were more or less in the public eye,” said Merryon.

“Oh, I meant after the dance,” she explained. “I felt sort of wound up and excited after I got back. And I wanted to see if I could still do it. I’m glad to say I can,” she ended, with another little laugh.

Her dark eyes shot him a tentative glance. “Can what?” asked Merryon.

“You’ll be shocked if I tell you.”

“What was it?” he said.

There was insistence in his tone–the insistence by which he had once compelled her to live against her will. Her eyelids fluttered a little as it reached her, but she cocked her small, pointed chin notwithstanding.

“Why should I tell you if I don’t want to?” she demanded.

“Why shouldn’t you want to?” he said.

The tip of her tongue shot out and in again. “Well, you never took me for a lady, did you?” she said, half-defiantly.

“What was it?” repeated Merryon, sticking to the point.

Again she grimaced at him, but she answered, “Oh, I only–after I’d had my bath–lay on the floor and ran round my head for a bit. It’s not a bit difficult, once you’ve got the knack. But I got thinking of Mrs. Paget–she does amuse me, that woman. Only yesterday she asked me what Puck was short for, and I told her Elizabeth–and then I got laughing so that I had to stop.”

Her face was flushed, and she was slightly breathless as she ended, but she stared across the table with brazen determination, like a naughty child expecting a slap.

Merryon’s face, however, betrayed neither astonishment nor disapproval. He even smiled a little as he said, “Perhaps you would like to give me lessons in that also? I’ve often wondered how it was done.”