V
"LITTLE SPECK IN GARNERED FRUIT"
The honeymoon was at its full. There was a flat with the reddest of
new carpets, tasselled portieres and six steins with pewter lids
arranged on a ledge above the wainscoting of the dining-room. The
wonder of it was yet upon them. Neither of them had ever seen a
yellow primrose by the river's brim; but if such a sight had met
their eyes at that time it would have seemed like--well, whatever
the poet expected the right kind of people to see in it besides a
primrose.
The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting upon the world. She
was wrapt in rosy dreams and a kimono of the same hue. She wondered
what the people in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan were
saying one to another about her marriage to Kid McGarry. Not that it
made any difference. There was no welter-weight from London to the
Southern Cross that could stand up four hours--no; four rounds--with
her bridegroom. And he had been hers for three weeks; and the crook
of her little finger could sway him more than the fist of any
142-pounder in the world.
Love, when it is ours, is the other name for self-abnegation and
sacrifice. When it belongs to people across the airshaft it means
arrogance and self-conceit.
The bride crossed her oxfords and looked thoughtfully at the
distemper Cupids on the ceiling.
"Precious," said she, with the air of Cleopatra asking Antony for
Rome done up in tissue paper and delivered at residence, "I think
I would like a peach.
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