I would start my married life with mirth. Men hate miserable, doleful women. Nine out of ten of them would sooner have an ugly wife who laughed than a pretty one who cried. Now I resolved that Arthur Ravener should have a wife who was both pretty and jolly. So I was as lively as I could be.
Tavistock Villa came into sight all too soon. It was a pretty red brick house, which I shall not attempt to describe. I am an utter failure from an architectural standpoint, and only know two things in that line: that some houses are Gothic and some are not. The house had been the gift of my mother, and it had been furnished by my husband. We went in.
I was loud in my admiration of his taste as soon as we had passed the front door. Every article of furniture seemed to have been selected with excellent judgment. I will not weary my readers with a description of tables and chairs and carpets, which have nothing to do with my story.
"Here are your rooms, Elsie," said Arthur, opening the door of an exquisite little boudoir,
