Thelma sprang to her husband and nestled in his arms.
"Philip, do not mind it," she murmured. "I felt a little sad—it is nothing! But tell me—you do love me? You will never tire of me? You have always loved me, I am sure?"
He raised her face gently with one hand, and looked at her in surprise.
"Thelma—what strange questions from you! Love you? Is not every beat of my heart for you? Are you not my life, my joy—my everything in this world?" And he pressed her passionately in his arms and kissed her.
"You have never loved any one else so much?" she whispered, half abashed.
"Never!" he answered readily. "What makes you ask such a thing?"
She was silent. He looked down at her flushing cheeks and tear-wet lashes attentively.
"You are fanciful to-day, my pet," he said at last. "You've been tiring yourself too much. You must rest. You'd better not go to the Brilliant Theatre to-night—it's only a burlesque, and is sure to be vulgar and noisy. We'll stop at home and spend a quiet evening together—shall we?"
She raised her eyes half wistfully and smiled. "I should like that very, very much, Philip!" she murmured; "but you know we did promise Clara to go with her to-night. And as we are so soon to leave London and return to Warwickshire, I should not like to disappoint her."
"You are very fond of Clara?" he asked suddenly.