“Let me forget,” she sobbed.  “Kiss me let me forget!”

Francis’ servant was both heavy-footed and discreet.  When he entered the room with a tray, his master was standing at the sideboard.

“I’ve done the best I could, sir,” he announced, a little apologetically.  “Shall I lay the cloth?”

“Leave everything on the tray, Brooks,” Francis directed.  “We will help ourselves.  In an hour’s time bring coffee.”

The man glanced around the room.

“There are glasses on the sideboard, sir, and the corkscrew is here.  I think you will have everything you want.”

He departed, closing the door behind him.  Francis held out his hands to Margaret.  She rose slowly to her feet, looked in the glass helplessly and then back at him.  She was very beautiful but a little dazed.

“Are we going to have luncheon?” she asked.

“Of course,” he answered.  “Did you think I meant to starve you?”

He picked up the long envelope which she had dropped upon the carpet, and threw it on to the sofa.  Then he drew up two chairs to the table, and opened a small bottle of champagne.

“I hope you won’t mind a picnic,” he said.  “Really, Brooks hasn’t done so badly—­pate de foie gras, hot toast and Devonshire butter.  Let me spread some for you.  A cold chicken afterwards, and some strawberries.  Please be hungry, Margaret.”

She laughed at him.  It occurred to him suddenly, with a little pang, that he had never heard her laugh before.  It was like music.

“I’m too happy,” she murmured.

“Believe me,” he assured her, as he buttered a piece of toast, “happiness and hunger might well be twins.  They go so well together.  Misery can take away one’s appetite.  Happiness, when one gets over the gulpiness of it, is the best tonic in the world.  And I never saw any one, dear, with whom happiness agreed so well,” he added, pausing in his task to bend over and kiss her.  “Do you know you are the most beautiful thing on earth?  It is a lucky thing we are going to live in England, and that these are sober, matter-of-fact days, or I should find myself committed to fighting duels all the time.”

She had a momentary relapse.  A look of terror suddenly altered her face.  She caught at his wrist.

“Don’t!” she cried.  “Don’t talk about such things!”

He was a little bewildered.  The moment passed.  She laughed almost apologetically.

“Forgive me,” she begged, “but I hate the thought of fighting of any sort.  Some day I’ll explain.”

“Clumsy ass I was!” he declared, completing his task and setting the result before her.  “Now how’s that for a first course?  Drink a little of your wine.”

He leaned his glass against hers.

“My love,” he whispered, “my love now, dear, and always, and you’ll find it quite strong enough,” he went on, “to keep you from all the ugly things.  And now away with sentiment.  I had a very excellent but solitary breakfast this morning, and it seems a long time ago.”