The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 2

fairly well-dowered, orphan, had drifted about since she had been
"grown-up," no one had ever heard of George Moore.
Strange, even in some ways amazing, their marriage--hers and Jack
Dampier's--had been! He, the clever, devil-may-care artist,
unconventional in all his ways, very much a Bohemian, knowing little
of his native country, England, for he had lived all his youth and
working life in France--and she, in everything, save an instinctive love
of beauty, which, oddly yet naturally enough, only betrayed itself in her
dress, the exact opposite!
A commission from an English country gentleman who had fancied a
portrait shown by Dampier in the Salon, had brought the artist, rather

reluctantly, across the Channel, and an accident--sometimes it made
them both shiver to realise how slight an accident--had led to their first
and decisive meeting.
Nancy Tremain had been brought over to tea, one cold, snowy
afternoon, at the house where Dampier was painting. She had been
dressed all in grey, and the graceful velvet gown and furry cap-like
toque had made her look, in his eyes, like an exquisite Eighteenth
Century pastel.
One glance--so Dampier had often since assured her and she never
grew tired of hearing it--had been enough. They had scarcely spoken
the one to the other, but he had found out her name, and, writing,
cajoled her into seeing him again. Very soon he had captured her in the
good old way, as women--or so men like to think--prefer to be wooed,
by right of conquest.
There had been no one to say them nay, no one to comment unkindly
over so strange and sudden a betrothal. On the contrary, Nancy's
considerable circle of acquaintances had smilingly approved.
All the world loves a masterful lover, and Nancy Tremain was far too
pretty, far too singular and charming, to become engaged in the course
of nature to some commonplace young man. This big, ugly, clever,
amusing artist was just the contrast which was needed for romance.
And he seemed by his own account to be making a very good income,
too! Yet, artists being such eccentric, extravagant fellows, doubtless
Nancy's modest little fortune would come in useful--so those about
them argued carelessly.
Then one of her acquaintances, a thought more good-natured than the
rest, arranged that lovely, happy Nancy should be married from a
pleasant country house, in a dear little country church. Braving
superstition, the wedding took place in the last week of May, and bride
and bridegroom had gone to Italy--though, to be sure, it was rather late
for Italy--for three happy weeks.

Now they were about to settle down in Dampier's Paris studio.
Unluckily it was an Exhibition Year, one of those years, that is, which,
hateful as they may be to your true Parisian, pour steady streams of
gold into the pockets of fortunate hotel and shop keepers, and which
bring a great many foreigners to Paris who otherwise might never have
come. Quite a number of such comfortable English folk were now
looking forward to going and seeing Nancy Dampier in her new
home--of which the very address was quaint and unusual, for Dampier's
studio was situated Impasse des Nonnes.
They were now speeding under and across the vast embracing shadow
of the Opera House. And again Dampier slipped his arm round his
young wife. It seemed to this happy man as if Paris to-night had put on
her gala dress to welcome him, devout lover and maker of beauty, back
to her bosom.
"Isn't it pleasant to think," he whispered, "that Paris is the more
beautiful because you now are in it and of it, Nancy?"
And Nancy smiled, well pleased at the fantastic compliment.
She pressed more closely to him.
"I wish--I wish--" and then she stopped, for she was unselfish, shy of
expressing her wishes, but that made Dampier ever the more eager to
hear, and, if possible, to gratify them.
"What is it that you wish, dear heart?" he asked.
"I wish, Jack, that we were going straight home to the studio
now--instead of to an hotel."
"We'll get in very soon," he answered quickly. "Believe me, darling,
you wouldn't like going in before everything is ready for you. Mère
Bideau has her good points, but she could never make the place look as
I want it to look when you first see it. I'll get up early to-morrow
morning and go and see to it all. I wouldn't for the world you saw our

home as it must look now--the poor little living rooms dusty and
shabby, and our boxes sitting sadly in the middle of the studio itself!"
They had sent their heavy luggage on from England, and for the
honeymoon Nancy had contented herself with one modest little trunk,
while Dampier had taken the large portmanteau which had