The End of Her Honeymoon | Page 5

do be careful, Gerald, I expect she knows a
little English--"
Dampier stepped down out of the cupboard.
"That American cub ought to be put in his place!" he muttered
heatedly.
Nancy turned her face away to hide a little smile. Jack was so funny!
He delighted in her beauty--he was always telling her so, and yet it
annoyed him if other people thought her pretty too. This young
American had looked at her quite pleasantly, quite respectfully; he
hadn't meant to be offensive--of that Nancy felt sure.

"I suppose you have a good many Americans this year?" went on
Dampier in French, turning to Monsieur Poulain.
"No, monsieur, no. Our clientèle is mostly French. We have only this
young lady, her brother, and their father, monsieur. The father is a
Senator in his own country--Senator Burton. They are very charming
people, and have stayed with us often before. All our other guests are
French. We have never had such a splendid season: and all because of
the Exhibition!"
"I'm glad you are doing well," said Dampier courteously. "But for my
part"--he shrugged his shoulders--"I'm too much of a Parisian to like
the Exhibition."
Then he turned to Nancy: "Well, you'll be quite safe, my darling.
Monsieur and Madame Poulain are only just through here, so you
needn't feel lonely."
And then there came a chorus of bonsoirs from host, from hostess, and
from the lad who now stood waiting with the Englishman's large
portmanteau hitched up on his shoulder.
Dampier bent and kissed his wife very tenderly: then he followed
Monsieur Poulain and the latter's nephew up the stairs, while Madame
Poulain stayed behind and helped Mrs. Dampier to unpack the few
things she required for the night.
And Nancy, though she felt just a little bewildered to find herself alone
in this strange house, was yet amused and cheered by the older
woman's lively chatter, and that although she only understood one word
in ten.
Madame Poulain talked of her daughter, Virginie, now in the country
well away from the holiday crowds brought by the Exhibition, and also
of her nephew, Jules, the lad who had carried up the luggage, and who
knew--so Madame Poulain went to some pains to make Nancy
understand--a little English.

Late though it was, the worthy woman did not seem in any hurry to go
away, but at last came the kindly words which even Nancy, slight as
was her knowledge of French, understood: "Bonsoir, madame. Dormez
bien."




CHAPTER II
Nancy Dampier sat up in bed.
Through the curtain covering the square aperture in the wall which did
duty for a window the strong morning light streamed in, casting a pink
glow over the peculiar little room.
She drew the pearl-circled watch, which had been one of Jack's first
gifts to her, from under the big, square pillow.
It was already half-past nine. How very tiresome and strange that she
should have overslept herself on this, her first morning in Paris! And
yet--and yet not so very strange after all, for her night had been
curiously and disagreeably disturbed.
At first she had slept the deep, dreamless sleep of happy youth, and
then, in a moment, she had suddenly sat up, wide awake.
The murmur of talking had roused her--of eager, low talking in the
room which lay the other side of the deep cupboard. When the murmur
had at last ceased she had dozed off, only to be waked again by the
sound of the porte cochère swinging back on its huge hinges.
It was evidently quite true--as Jack had said--that Paris never goes to
sleep.

Jack had declared he would get up and go over to the studio early, so
there was nothing for it but to get up, and wait patiently till he came
back. Nancy knew that her husband wouldn't like her to venture out
into the streets alone. He was extraordinarily careful of her--careful and
thoughtful for her comfort.
What an angel he was--her great strong, clever Jack!
A girl who goes about by herself as much as Nancy Tremain had gone
about alone during the three years which had elapsed betwixt her
leaving school and her marriage, obtains a considerable knowledge of
men, and not of the nicest kind of men. But Jack was an angel--she
repeated the rather absurdly incongruous word to herself with a very
tender feeling in her heart. He always treated her not only as if she were
something beautiful and rare, but something fragile, to be respected as
well as adored....
He had left her so little during the last three weeks that she had never
had time to think about him as she was thinking of him now; "counting
up her mercies," as an old-fashioned lady she had known as