“You know, Alix,” he said, suddenly, “you’ve made life a different thing to me.  I never had any woman near me before, and to hear your voice about the house, and your piano, and your laugh—­why, it’s wonderful to me.  I’ve been alone here so many years, not knowing really how much of life I missed, and you’ve brought it all to me.  Why, even to have Mrs. Florence at the post office ask me for ‘Mrs. Joyce,’ gives me a warm, happy sort of feeling!  I—­” he stroked the smooth hand under his own; there was real emotion in his voice, “I’d do a good deal to show you how grateful I am, old girl,” he finished.  “I wish you could tell me where I fail, and I’d move heaven and earth to please you!”

“The point is,” Alix said, with her mischievous smile, as she twisted the heavy ring he wore, “do I fail you?  I know I don’t flush with delight when you give me a smile, and tremble with fear at your frown!  I know that the smell of my hair doesn’t make you turn pale, and the touch of my hand make you dizzy!  There’s no fury, fire, and madness—­”

She laughed, and he laughed, too, a little reproachfully.

“You never will be serious for more than two minutes, Alexandra, my child!” he said.

Alix did not answer.  She sat staring at the fire for another minute or two, and her eyes brightened childishly, had he but seen them.  But she did not give another look at him.  With a great fling of her arms she rested her head between two elbows for a second, tousled her hair, and yawned.

“I’m going to bed!” she announced.  “I’m so glad I married a man who is accustomed to banking the fire and opening windows and putting out lamps every night.  You,” she had reached the door of their room now, and already the silky braids were freed, and tumbled about her shoulders, “you spoil me, Pete!” she said, between them.  “Our marriage may be different, but it has its good points!”

“Sure you’re happy?” he smiled.

The familiar little answer came confidently.  He heard her humming as she undressed in a shaft of moonlight; she was never serious long.

One May day they were picnicking in the big forest.  It was a day of spongy dampness underfoot, sweet and wild with breezes, blue of sky, and still cold in the shade, if it was heavenly warm in the sun.  Alix, who was hot and panting from the scrambling and slipping downhill, hung on a bank, with her arm crooked about a sapling oak, for support, her hat slipped back and hanging childishly about her neck, and her already brief tramping skirt displaying an even unusual amount of sensibly booted leg.  Below her Peter on the bank of the stream was gathering firewood.  Shafts of sunlight filtered through the arches of the redwoods high above the creek, and fell here and there upon the busy currents of the water.  Presently sunshine turned the flames of the brush fire to pink, a dense column of white smoke rose fragrantly between the dark-brown, furry trunks.