The bride looked a little checked. But then the tea came in, a real
Westmorland meal, with its toasted bun, its jam, and its 'twist' of new
bread; and Nelly Sarratt forgot everything but the pleasure of making
her husband eat, of filling his cup for him, of looking sometimes
through the window at that shining lake, beside which she and George
would soon be roaming--for six long days. Yes, and nights too. For there
was a moon rising, which would be at the full in two or three days.
Imagination flew forward, as she leant dreamily back in her chair when
the meal was over, her eyes on the landscape. They two alone--on that
warm summer lake--drifting in the moonlight--heart against heart, cheek
against cheek. A shiver ran through her, which was partly passion,
partly a dull fear. But she banished fear. Nothing--_nothing_ should
spoil their week together.

'Darling!' said her husband, who had been watching her--'You're not very
tired?' He slipped his hand round hers, and her fingers rested in his
clasp, delighted to feel themselves so small, and his so strong. He had
spoken to her in the low voice that was hers alone. She was jealous lest
Bridget should have overheard it. But Bridget was at the other end of
the room. How foolish it had been of her--just because she was so happy,
and wanted to be nice to everybody!--to have asked Bridget to stay with
them! She was always doing silly things like that--impulsive things. But
now she was married. She must think more. It was really very considerate
of Bridget to have got them all out of a difficulty and to have settled
herself a mile away from them; though at first it had seemed rather
unkind. Now they could see her always sometime in the day, but not so as
to interfere. She was afraid Bridget and George would never really get
on, though she--Nelly--wanted to forget all the unpleasantness there had
been,--to forget everything--everything but George. The fortnight's
honeymoon lay like a haze of sunlight between her and the past.