"I'd like to live the first days over and over and over again,
Greg!" she answered passionately.

"You are an insatiable creature!" he said. But her earnestness was
beginning to puzzle him a little. She was too deeply wrapped in
her love for her own happiness or his. There was something almost
startling in her intensity. She was jealous of every minute that
they were apart; she made no secret of her blind adoration.

Warren had at first found this touching; it had humbled him.
Later, in the first months of their marriage, he had shared it,
and their mutual passion had seemed to them both a source of
inexhaustible delight. But now, even while he smiled at her, his
keen sensitiveness where her dignity was concerned had shown him
that there was in her attitude something a little pitiful,
something even a little absurd.

Judy and Gertrude and little Mrs. Sartoris listened interestedly
when Rachael talked of Greg, of his likes, his dislikes, his
favorite words, his old-maidish way of arranging his ties, his
marvellous latest operation. But Warren, watching his wife's
flushed, lovely face, wondered if they were laughing at her. He
smiled uncomfortably when she interrupted her bridge game to come
across the club porch to him, to ask him if the tennis had been
good, to warn him that he would catch cold if he did not instantly
get out of those wet flannels, to ask Frank Whittaker what he
meant by beating her big boy three sets in succession?

"Rachael, I'm dealing for you--come back here!" Gertrude might
call.