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.  She felt suddenly secure.  If it stayed like that, then!—­His hand rested on her knee; his face changed just a little; the spirit seemed to waver, to be fading; his lips grew fuller.  He crossed over and sat beside her.  Instantly she began to talk about their house, where they were going to put certain things—­presents and all that.  He, too, talked of the house; but every now and then he glanced at the corridor, and muttered.  It was pleasant to feel that the thought of her possessed him through and through, but she was tremulously glad of that corridor.  Life is mercifully made up of little things!  And Gyp was always able to live in the moment.  In the hours they had spent together, up to now, he had been like a starved man snatching hasty meals; now that he had her to himself for good, he was another creature altogether—­like a boy out of school, and kept her laughing nearly all the time.

Presently he got down his practise violin, and putting on the mute, played, looking at her over his shoulder with a droll smile.  She felt happy, much warmer at heart, now.  And when his face was turned away, she looked at him.  He was so much better looking now than when he had those little whiskers.  One day she had touched one of them and said:  “Ah! if only these wings could fly!” Next morning they had flown.  His face was not one to be easily got used to; she was not used to it yet, any more than she was used to his touch.  When it grew dark, and he wanted to draw down the blinds, she caught him by the sleeve, and said: 

“No, no; they’ll know we’re honeymooners!”

“Well, my Gyp, and are we not?”

But he obeyed; only, as the hours went on, his eyes seemed never to let her alone.

At Torquay, the sky was clear and starry; the wind brought whiffs of sea-scent into their cab; lights winked far out on a headland; and in the little harbour, all bluish dark, many little boats floated like tame birds.  He had put his arm round her, and she could feel his hand resting on her heart.  She was grateful that he kept so still.  When the cab stopped and they entered the hall of the hotel, she whispered: 

“Don’t let’s let them see!”

Still, mercifully, little things!  Inspecting the three rooms, getting the luggage divided between dressing-room and bedroom, unpacking, wondering which dress to put on for dinner, stopping to look out over the dark rocks and the sea, where the moon was coming up, wondering if she dared lock the door while she was dressing, deciding that it would be silly; dressing so quickly, fluttering when she found him suddenly there close behind her, beginning to do up her hooks.  Those fingers were too skilful!  It was the first time she had thought of his past with a sort of hurt pride and fastidiousness.  When he had finished, he twisted her round, held her away, looked at her from head to foot, and said below his breath: