Love Lies Dreaming by C S Forester Page A

stunned by this surprise attack to utter a word.
    â€œYou know it’s true,” said Constance. “Oh, I hate you.”
    I scratched my head and gasped.
    â€œOh, confound it, Constance,” I said, “you know that isn’t true. It isn’t fair to say things like that.”
    â€œI think it is,” said Constance, in the same somber tone.
    The mosquitoes were biting most infernally, and I was cross and irritable through worry and shortage of sleep, and this groundless charge was the last straw.
    â€œHave it your own way, then,” I said. “I’m a dirty dog, with low and revolting ideas, and I only married you for the fun of outraging all your ideals—and outraging you into the bargain, for the matter of that. And if you really want to know, all that I was anxiousabout this evening was just because I didn’t want to spend another night in that blasted wicker chair.”
    It was Constance’s turn to gasp. And my evil temper lured me on. “And you know perfectly well that the reason why you said that about me was because you have a guilty feeling yourself.”
    It was true enough, I think, but it was an abominable thing to say at that juncture. Constance was just as nervy and worried as I was myself, more so, in fact. She stood up with a cold dignity.
    â€œI’m going home,” she said, and that brought me to my senses with a jerk. I caught at her hand.
    â€œConstance, dear,” I said, “you know I was only being a fool when I said that. I can wait—I can wait years—all my life if necessary, so long as you are only happy. Dear, I’m sorry. Be patient for this once.”
    Constance lingered.
    â€œOf course, you’re fed up after the day you’ve had,” I said, “but you’ll be all right in the morning after a good night’s rest. Dear, can’t you remember—lots of things? Can’t—damn.”
    Some wretched angler and his wife made their appearance on the veranda.
    â€œSlip up to bed, old thing,” I whispered. “I’ll be along later.”
    Constance went.
    When I arrived upstairs it was at once apparent that Constance was still nursing some shadow of her former grievance. For though she had undressed, she had put on her dressing-gown and swathed herself in the eiderdown, and was huddled in the wicker arm-chair. Her face bore an expression combining those of Joan of Arc and Saint Katharine.
    â€œYou won’t have to sleep in this b-blasted armchair,” she said. “It’s my turn tonight.”
    I put my head into the lion’s mouth. He who tries to employ the iron hand with Constance usually finds that he has bitten off more than he can chew, besides getting his metaphors mixed, but I had the sense to know that argument would only make Constance more set than ever in her determination. I slipped my arms under her and lifted her out of the chair. The eiderdown fell to the ground. Still holding her in the air, I passed my arms under her dressing gown; I could feel her warm body beneath her cobweb nightdress.
    â€œOoh, what are you going to do with me?”
    â€œArms out of your dressing gown,” I whispered, and Constance was still too surprised to do anything else than obey me. Then I dropped a little wriggling Constance into bed, and drew the clothes over her.
    â€œYou’ll be more comfy there, dear,” I said, and I kissed her.
    Two dressing gowns and a raincoat, and a chair to put my feet on, made me much more comfortable that night in the wicker chair than I had been last night. But I was not yet asleep when there came a voice from the bed.
    â€œDear,” it said timidly, “are you awake?”
    I slipped off the chair and came over to her. I found her hand in the dark.
    â€œDear,” said Constance, “you’re beastly uncomfortable, and I’m a pig. I’m sorry, dear. Won’t you—won’t you—?”
    That was the