“I know.  Isn’t it heavenly to think that we shall be together now all the rest of our lives?  Biddy, I was thinking ... if—­if ever we have a son I should like to call him Peter Reid.  Would you mind?”

“My darling!”

“It wouldn’t go very well with the Quintins and the Reginalds and all the other names, but it would be a sort of Thank you to the poor rich man who was so kind to me.”

“All the same, I sometimes wish he hadn’t left you all that money.  I would rather have given you everything myself.”

“Like King Cophetua.  I’ve no doubt it was all right for him, but it can’t have been much fun for the beggar maid.  No matter how kind and generous a man is, to be dependent on him for every penny can’t be nice.  It’s different, I think, when the man is poor.  Then they both work, the man earning, the woman saving and contriving....  But what’s the good of talking about money?  Money only matters when you haven’t got any.”

“O wise young Judge!”

“No, it’s really quite a wise statement when you think of it....  Let’s go outside.  I want to see the river near.”  She turned while going out at the door and looked with great satisfaction on the room that was to be her own.

“I am glad of this room, Biddy.  It has such a kind feeling.  The other rooms are lovely, but they are meant for crowds of people.  This says tea, and a fire and a book and a friend—­the four nicest things in the world.”

They walked slowly down to the river.

“Swans!” said Jean, “and a boat!”

“In Shelley’s dreams of Heaven there are always a river and a boat—­I read that somewhere....  Well, what do you think of Mintern Abbas?  Did I overpraise?”

Jean shook her head.

“That wouldn’t be easy.  It’s the most wonderful place ... like a dream.  Look at it now in the afternoon light, pale gold like honey.  And the odd thing is it’s in the very heart of England, and yet it might almost be Scotland.”

“I thought that would appeal to you.  Will you learn to love it, do you think?”

“I shan’t have to learn.  I love it already.”

“And feel it home?”

“Yes ... but, Biddy, there’s just one thing.  I shall love our home with all my heart and be absolutely content here if you promise me one thing—­that when I die I’ll be taken to Priorsford....  I know it’s nonsense.  I know it doesn’t matter where the pickle dust that was me lies, but I don’t think I could be quite happy if I didn’t know that one day I should lie within sound of Tweed....  You’re laughing, Biddy.”

“My darling, like you I’ve sometimes wondered what people talked about on their honeymoon, but never in my wildest imaginings did I dream that they talked of where they would like to be buried.”

Jean hid an abashed face for a moment against her husband’s sleeve; then she looked up at him and laughed.

“It sounds mad—­but I mean it,” she said.