“I suppose we do make more noise than English people,” she admitted a second or so later.  “I wonder why?” And without waiting for an answer—­somewhat as if she had not expected or quite wanted one—­she leaned a little farther over the side to look back, waving her small, fluttering handkerchief to the many still in tumult on the wharf.  She was not perceptive or quick enough to take offence, to realise that the remark was significant and that Sir Nigel had already begun as he meant to go on.  It was far from being his intention to play the part of an American husband, who was plainly a creature in whom no authority vested itself.  Americans let their women say and do anything, and were capable of fetching and carrying for them.  He had seen a man run upstairs for his wife’s wrap, cheerfully, without the least apparent sense that the service was the part of a footman if there was one in the house, a parlour maid if there was not.  Sir Nigel had been brought up in the good Early Victorian days when “a nice little woman to fetch your slippers for you” figured in certain circles as domestic bliss.  Girls were educated to fetch slippers as retrievers were trained to go into the water after sticks, and terriers to bring back balls thrown for them.

The new Lady Anstruthers had, it supervened, several opportunities to obtain a new view of her bridegroom’s character before their voyage across the Atlantic was over.  At this period of the slower and more cumbrous weaving of the Shuttle, the world had not yet awakened even to the possibilities of the ocean greyhound.  An Atlantic voyage at times was capable of offering to a bride and bridegroom days enough to begin to glance into their future with a premonition of the waning of the honeymoon, at least, and especially if they were not sea-proof, to wish wearily that the first half of it were over.  Rosalie was not weary, but she began to be bewildered.  As she had never been a clever girl or quick to perceive, and had spent her life among women-indulging American men, she was not prepared with any precedent which made her situation clear.  The first time Sir Nigel showed his temper to her she simply stared at him, her eyes looking like those of a puzzled, questioning child.  Then she broke into her nervous little laugh, because she did not know what else to do.  At his second outbreak her stare was rather startled and she did not laugh.

Her first awakening was to an anxious wonderment concerning certain moods of gloom, or what seemed to be gloom, to which he seemed prone.  As she lay in her steamer chair he would at times march stiffly up and down the deck, apparently aware of no other existence than his own, his features expressing a certain clouded resentment of whose very unexplainableness she secretly stood in awe.  She was not astute enough, poor girl, to leave him alone, and when with innocent questionings she endeavoured to discover his trouble, the greatest mystification she encountered was that he had the power to make her feel that she was in some way taking a liberty, and showing her lack of tact and perspicuity.