“No, no,” said Marie sighing, “no, no!  It’s beautiful.”

CHAPTER III

BEAUTIFUL

The young Kerrs gave themselves a fine time; an amazing time.  A dozen times a day they used to tell each other with a solemn delight how amazing it all was.  When they awoke in the mornings, in a sleeping apartment far more splendid than any they could ever sanely hope—­not that they were sane—­to rent for themselves, when an interested if blasee chambermaid entered with early tea, finding Marie in one of the pink caps and a pink matinee over a miraculously frail nightdress, with Osborn hopelessly surprised and admiring, they used to say to each other, while the bride dispensed the tea: 

“Isn’t it all nice?  Did you ever imagine anything could be so nice?”

When they descended to breakfast, very fresh and spruce, under the eyes of such servants as they could never expect to hire themselves, they looked at each other across the table for two, and touched each other’s foot under it and asked:  “Doesn’t it seem extraordinary to be breakfasting together like this?”

And when one of the cars from the hotel garage was ordered round to take them for a run, and they snuggled side by side on well-sprung cushions such as they would probably never ride upon again, they held hands and exclaimed under their breath:  “This is fine, isn’t it?  I wish this could last for ever!  Some day, when our ship comes in, we’ll have this make of car.”

And when they walked the length of the pier together, two well-clad and well-looking young people, they would gaze out to sea with the same vision, see the infinite prospects of the horizon and say profoundly:  “We’re out at last on the big voyage.  Didn’t our engagement seem endless?  But now—­we’re off!”

For dinner, in the great dining-room, with the orchestra playing dimly in the adjacent Palm Court, Mrs. Osborn Kerr would put on the ineffable wedding gown, and all the other guests and the servants, with experienced eyes, would know it for what it was; and Mr. Osborn Kerr wore the dinner jacket from the best tailor in town, and after they had progressed a little with their wine—­they had a half-bottle every night; what would the bill be?—­they would look into each other’s eyes of wonder and murmur:  “I always knew we’d have a beautiful honeymoon; but I never imagined it could be so beautiful as this.”

Later, much later, when the evening’s delights had gone by in soft procession, they went to other delights.  Osborn brushed Marie’s hair with the tortoise shell-back brushes he had given her for a wedding gift, and compared it with the Golden Fleece, the wealth of Sheba, the dust of stars, till she was arrogant with the homage of man and he was drunk with love of her.

They had their great wild happy moment to which every human being has the right, and no one and nothing robbed them of it.  It flowed to its close like a summer’s day, and the sun set upon it with great promise of a like to-morrow.