And if he waited for an answer, as he usually did, she might smile lightly and say:  “Few people have gone through so much.”

“Is there any woman in the world, Grizel, with whom you would change places?”

“No, none,” she said at once; and when he was sure of it, but never until he was sure, he would give his mind a little holiday; and then, perhaps, those candid eyes would rest searchingly upon him, but always with a brave smile ready should he chance to look up.

And it was just the same when they returned to Double Dykes, which they added to and turned into a comfortable home—­Tommy trying to become a lover by taking thought, and Grizel not letting on that it could not be done in that way.  She thought it was very sweet of him to try so hard—­sweeter of him than if he really had loved her, though not, of course, quite so sweet to her.  He was a boy only.  She knew that, despite all he had gone through, he was still a boy.  And boys cannot love.  Oh, who would be so cruel as to ask a boy to love?

That Grizel’s honeymoon should never end was his grand ambition, and he took elaborate precautions against becoming a matter-of-fact husband.  Every morning he ordered himself to gaze at her with rapture, as if he had wakened to the glorious thought that she was his wife.

“I can’t help it, Grizel; it comes to me every morning with the same shock of delight, and I begin the day with a song of joy.  You make the world as fresh and interesting to me as if I had just broken like a chicken through the egg shell.”  He rose at the earliest hours.  “So that I can have the longer day with you,” he said gaily.

If when sitting at his work he forgot her for an hour or two he reproached himself for it afterwards, and next day he was more careful.  “Grizel,” he would cry, suddenly flinging down his pen, “you are my wife!  Do you hear me, madam?  You hear, and yet you can sit there calmly darning socks!  Excuse me,” he would say to his work, “while I do a dance.”

He rose impulsively and brought his papers nearer her.  With a table between them she was several feet away from him, which was more, he said, than he could endure.

“Sit down for a moment, Grizel, and let me look at you.  I want to write something most splendiferous to-day, and I am sure to find it in your face.  I have ceased to be an original writer; all the purple patches are cribbed from you.”

He made a point of taking her head in his hands and looking long at her with thoughts too deep for utterance; then he would fall on his knees and kiss the hem of her dress, and so back to his book again.

And in time it was all sweet to Grizel.  She could not be deceived, but she loved to see him playing so kind a part, and after some sadness to which she could not help giving way, she put all vain longings aside.  She folded them up and put them away like the beautiful linen, so that she might see more clearly what was left to her and how best to turn it to account.