"Your eyes are looking at the sky, Thelma," he whispered. "Do you know
what that is? Heaven looking into heaven! And do you know which of the
two heavens I prefer?" She smiled, and turning, met his ardent gaze with
one of equal passion and tenderness.
"Ah, you _do_ know!" he went on, softly kissing the side of her slim
white throat. "I thought you couldn't possibly make a mistake!" He
rested his head against her shoulder, and after a minute or two of lazy
comfort, he resumed. "You are not ambitious, my Thelma! You don't seem
to care whether your husband distinguishes himself in the 'Ouse,' as our
friend the brewer calls it, or not. In fact, I don't believe you care
for anything save--love! Am I not right, my wife?"
A wave of rosy color flushed her transparent skin, and her eyes filled
with an earnest, almost pathetic languor.
"Surely of all things in the world," she said in a low tone,--"Love is
best?"
To this he made prompt answer, though not in words--his lips conversed
with hers, in that strange, sweet language which, though unwritten, is
everywhere comprehensible,--and then they left their shady resting-place
and sauntered homeward hand in hand through the warm fields fragrant
with wild thyme and clover.
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