Nancy withdrew herself gently from her husband's arm. It seemed to her that
every one in that merry, slowly moving crowd on either side must see that
he was holding her to him. She was a shy, sensitive little creature, this
three-weeks-old bride, whose honeymoon was now about to merge into happy
every-day life.

Dampier divined something of what she was feeling. He put out his hand and
clasped hers. "Silly sweetheart," he whispered. "All these merry,
chattering people are far too full of themselves to be thinking of us!"

As she made no answer, bewildered, a little oppressed by the brilliance,
the strangeness of everything about them, he added a little anxiously,
"Darling, are you tired? Would you rather go straight to the hotel?"

But pressing closer to him, Nancy shook her head. "No, no, Jack! I'm not a
bit tired. It was you who were tired to-day, not I!"

"I didn't feel well in the train, 'tis true. But now that I'm in Paris I
could stay out all night! I suppose you've never read George Moore's
description of this very drive we're taking, little girl?"

And again Nancy shook her head, and smiled in the darkness. In the world
where she had lived her short life, in the comfortable, unimaginative world
in which Nancy Tremain, the delightfully pretty, fairly well-dowered,
orphan, had drifted about since she had been "grown-up," no one had ever
heard of George Moore.

Strange, even in some ways amazing, their marriage--hers and Jack
Dampier's--had been! He, the clever, devil-may-care artist, unconventional