"I suppose you mean me, Dick," said Lys, coloring up.
"Now I bore you, don't I?"
"Bore me? Ah, no, Dick."
After coffee and cigarettes were served I spoke about Tregunc, and Lys
approved.
"Poor Jean! He will be glad, won't he? What a dear fellow you are!"
"Nonsense," said I; "we need a gardener; you said so yourself, Lys."
But Lys leaned over and kissed me, and then bent down and hugged
Môme--who whistled through his nose in sentimental appreciation.
"I am a very happy woman," said Lys.
"Môme was a very bad dog to-day," I observed.
"Poor Môme!" said Lys, smiling.
When dinner was over and Môme lay snoring before the blaze--for the
October nights are often chilly in Finistere--Lys curled up in the
chimney corner with her embroidery, and gave me a swift glance from
under her dropping lashes.
"You look like a schoolgirl, Lys," I said teasingly. "I don't believe
you are sixteen yet."
She pushed back her heavy burnished hair thoughtfully. Her wrist was as
white as surf foam.
"Have we been married four years? I don't believe it," I said.
She gave me another swift glance and touched the embroidery on her knee,
smiling faintly.
"I see," said I, also smiling at the embroidered garment. "Do you think
it will fit?"
"Fit?" repeated Lys. Then she laughed
"And," I persisted, "are you perfectly sure that you--er--we shall need
it?"
"Perfectly," said Lys. A delicate color touched her cheeks and neck. She
held up the little garment, all fluffy with misty lace and wrought with
quaint embroidery.
"It is very gorgeous," said I; "don't use your eyes too much, dearest.
May I smoke a pipe?"
"Of course," she said selecting a skein of pale blue silk.
For a while I sat and smoked in silence, watching her slender fingers
among the tinted silks and thread of gold.