He lay with his head snoozled down
into the pillow, so that she could only see his thick, rumpled hair. And
a shiver went through her, exactly as if a strange man were lying there.
Did he really belong to her, and she to him--for good? And was this
their house--together? It all seemed somehow different, more serious and
troubling, in this strange bed, of this strange room, that was to be so
permanent. Careful not to wake him, she slipped out and stood between
the curtains and the window. Light was all in confusion yet; away low
down behind the trees, the rose of dawn still clung. One might almost
have been in the country, but for the faint, rumorous noises of the town
beginning to wake, and that film of ground-mist which veils the feet
of London mornings. She thought: "I am mistress in this house, have to
direct it all--see to everything! And my pups! Oh, what do they eat?"
That was the first of many hours of anxiety, for she was very
conscientious. Her fastidiousness desired perfection, but her
sensitiveness refused to demand it of others--especially servants. Why
should she harry them?
Fiorsen had not the faintest notion of regularity. She found that he
could not even begin to appreciate her struggles in housekeeping. And
she was much too proud to ask his help, or perhaps too wise, since he
was obviously unfit to give it. To live like the birds of the air was
his motto.
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