The day after my marriage I did not come into the salon until just before luncheon, at half-past twelve o'clock. My bride was not there.
"Her Ladyship has gone out walking, Sir Nicholas," Burton informed me as he settled me in my chair.
I took up a book which was lying upon the table. It was a volume of Laurence Hope's "Last Poems." It may have come in a batch of new publications sent in a day or two ago, but I had not remarked it. It was not cut all through, but someone had cut it up to the 86th page and had evidently paused to read a poem called "Listen Beloved," the paper knife lay between the leaves. Whoever it was must have read it over and over, for the book opened easily there, and one verse struck me forcibly:
And then my eye travelled on to the bottom of the page.
We are both
