"To look at you, Jack," murmured Sweetheart, "one might think you
unhappy."
Unhappy! At the thought our eyes met across the table.
"Unhappy!" I whispered.
Then Clifford came stumbling in, wearing a pair of Joseph's sabots,
and, imitating that faithful domestic in voice and manner, invited us
to tea under the lilacs and almond blossoms.
"In a moment," cried Sweetheart impatiently. "Go and pour the tea."
Clifford looked aghast. "No, no!" he cried; "it's impossible--I won't
believe that you two are deliberately getting rid of me so you can be
alone to spoon! And your honeymoon already a year old, and----"
Sweetheart frowned, and tapped her foot.
Clifford retired indignant.
Then she raised her eyes to mine, and a delicate colour stained her
cheeks and neck.
"Yes," I said, "we have been married nearly a year, Sweetheart."
We looked at our white shadows on the floor.