And now that she was his wife, what was he to say to her?  They two had commenced a partnership which was to make of them for the remaining term of their lives one body and one flesh.  They were to be all-in-all to each other.  But how was he to begin this all-in-all partnership?  Had the priest, with his blessing, done it so sufficiently that no other doing on Crosbie’s own part was necessary?  There she was, opposite to him, his very actual wife,—­bone of his bone; and what was he to say to her?  As he settled himself on his seat, taking over his own knees a part of a fine fur rug trimmed with scarlet, with which he had covered her other mufflings, he bethought himself how much easier it would have been to talk to Lily.  And Lily would have been ready with all her ears, and all her mind, and all her wit, to enter quickly upon whatever thoughts had occurred to him.  In that respect Lily would have been a wife indeed,—­a wife that would have transferred herself with quick mental activity into her husband’s mental sphere.  Had he begun about his office Lily would have been ready for him, but Alexandrina had never yet asked him a single question about his official life.  Had he been prepared with a plan for to-morrow’s happiness Lily would have taken it up eagerly, but Alexandrina never cared for such trifles.

“Are you quite comfortable?” he said, at last.

“Oh, yes, quite, thank you.  By-the-by, what did you do with my dressing-case?”

And that question she did ask with some energy.

“It is under you.  You can have it as foot-stool if you like it.”

“Oh, no; I should scratch it.  I was afraid that if Hannah had it, it might be lost.”  Then again there was silence, and Crosbie again considered as to what he would next say to his wife.

We all know the advice given us of old as to what we should do under such circumstances; and who can be so thoroughly justified in following that advice as a newly-married husband?  So he put out his hand for hers and drew her closer to him.

“Take care of my bonnet,” she said, as she felt the motion of the railway carriage when he kissed her.  I don’t think he kissed her again till he had landed her and her bonnet safely at Folkestone.  How often would he have kissed Lily, and how pretty would her bonnet have been when she reached the end of her journey, and how delightfully happy would she have looked when she scolded him for bending it!  But Alexandrina was quite in earnest about her bonnet; by far too much in earnest for any appearance of happiness.

So he sat without speaking, till the train came to the tunnel.

“I do so hate tunnels,” said Alexandrina.

He had half intended to put out his hand again, under some mistaken idea that the tunnel afforded him an opportunity.  The whole journey was one long opportunity, had he desired it; but his wife hated tunnels, and so he drew his hand back again.  Lily’s little fingers would have been ready for his touch.  He thought of this, and could not help thinking of it.