Sheila said nothing, but she made a mental memorandum of three things she was not to speak about.  She did not know why these subjects should be forbidden, but she was in a strange land and going to see strange people, whose habits were different from hers.  Moreover, when her husband had gone she reflected that these people, having no fishing and no peat-mosses and no wild-duck, could not possibly be interested in such affairs; and thus she fancied she perceived the reason why she should avoid all mention of those things.

When in the evening Sheila came down dressed and ready to go out, Lavender had to admit to himself that he had married an exceedingly beautiful girl, and that there was no country gawkiness about her manner, and no placid insipidity about her proud and handsome face.  For one brief moment he triumphed in his heart, and had some wild glimpse of his old project of startling his small world with this vision from the northern seas.  But when he got into the hired brougham, and thought of the people he was about to meet, and of the manner in which they would carry away such and such impressions of the girl, he lost faith in that admiration.  He would much rather have had Sheila unnoticeable and unnoticed—­one who would quietly take her place at the dinner-table, and attract no more special attention than the flowers, for example, which every one would glance at with some satisfaction, and then forget in the interest of talking and dining.  He was quite conscious of his own weakness in thus fearing social criticism.  He knew that Ingram would have taken Sheila anywhere in her blue serge dress, and been quite content and oblivious of observation.  But then Ingram was independent of those social circles in which a married man must move, and in which his position is often defined for him by the disposition and manners of his wife.  Ingram did not know how women talked.  It was for Sheila’s own sake, he persuaded himself, that he was anxious about the impression she should make, and that he had drilled her in all that she should do and say.

“Above all things,” he said, “mind you take no notice of me.  Another man will take you in to dinner, of course, and I shall take in somebody else, and we shall not be near each other.  But it’s after dinner, I mean:  when the men go into the drawing-room don’t you come and speak to me or take any notice of me whatever.”

“Mayn’t I look at you, Frank?”

“If you do you’ll have half a dozen people all watching you, saying to themselves or to each other, ’Poor thing! she hasn’t got over her infatuation yet.  Isn’t it pretty to see how naturally her eyes turn toward him?’”

“But I shouldn’t mind them saying that,” said Sheila with a smile.

“Oh, you mustn’t be pitied in that fashion.  Let them keep their compassion to themselves.”

“Do you know, dear,” said Sheila very quietly, “that I think you exaggerate the interest people will take in me?  I don’t think I can be of such importance to them.  I don’t think they will be watching me as you fancy.”