"And he never once kissed her on the way from church!" exclaimed the footman.
But the coachman did not think this very peculiar. "I don't hold with kissing," said he; "to my mind there's nothing in it. Kissing is for boys and gals--not for men and wives."
Baron Zeuill was unable to join them all at breakfast, but Pensée, and Reckage, and David Rennes (who had been especially invited the night before because he had proved so entertaining), did more than their duty as friends by talking feverishly, eating immoderately, and affecting the conventional joyousness universally thought proper at such times. Pensée ventured to make a reference to the forthcoming marriage of the "best man," and expressed the faltering hope that "dear Agnes would be as happy as dear Brigit." Reckage scowled. Rennes was seized with a fit of coughing. It was the one unlucky hit in the whole conversation, and it was soon forgotten by every one present except Orange, who remembered it frequently in later days. At last the hour for departure came. Pensée, weeping, kissed Brigit on both cheeks, looked into her grave eyes long and lovingly, put her arms around the slight, girlish form with that exquisite, indefinable tenderness, unconscious, unpremeditated, and protective, which married women show toward very youthful brides. Robert handed his wife into the brougham, the order was given "To Waterloo," the horses started, rice and slippers were thrown.
"They go into the world for the first time," exclaimed Rennes.
Then Pensée was assisted into the barouche, and drove homewards.
"We shall meet again," she said, as she parted from Reckage; "we meet at Sara's at lunch."
The two men were thus left alone. They decided to smoke, for they were both a little affected by the pathos of the situation.
"Explain Robert," said his lordship, as they returned to the dining-room, "explain that kind of love. You are an artist."
"Well, it isn't my way," rejoined the other, with a forced laugh, "but there are many manifestations of personal magnetism."
"This kind is very interesting," said Reckage, "although it is, of course, high-flown. Orange is romantic and scrupulous--he knows next to nothing of the sensual life; and that next to nothing is merely a source of disgust and remorse. You follow me?"