Part II
I
When a girl first sits opposite the man she has married, of what does
she think? Not of the issues and emotions that lie in wait. They are
too overwhelming; she would avoid them while she can. Gyp thought of her
frock, a mushroom-coloured velvet cord. Not many girls of her class are
married without "fal-lals," as Winton had called them. Not many girls
sit in the corner of their reserved first-class compartments without
the excitement of having been supreme centre of the world for some
flattering hours to buoy them up on that train journey, with no memories
of friends' behaviour, speech, appearance, to chat of with her husband,
so as to keep thought away. For Gyp, her dress, first worn that day,
Betty's breakdown, the faces, blank as hats, of the registrar and clerk,
were about all she had to distract her. She stole a look at her husband,
clothed in blue serge, just opposite. Her husband! Mrs. Gustav Fiorsen!
No! People might call her that; to herself, she was Ghita Winton. Ghita
Fiorsen would never seem right. And, not confessing that she was afraid
to meet his eyes, but afraid all the same, she looked out of the window.
A dull, bleak, dismal day; no warmth, no sun, no music in it--the Thames
as grey as lead, the willows on its banks forlorn.
Suddenly she felt his hand on hers. She had not seen his face like that
before--yes; once or twice when he was playing--a spirit shining though.
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