Afterwards, when she was able to look back upon her honeymoon as from a great distance, calmly, Elizabeth realised that it was the fact of living for the first time in a foreign country, in an inevitably bizarre atmosphere, which to some extent mitigated the shock that marriage gave her. In England, amongst English people and accustomed surroundings she could not have borne it, but in Paris nothing was real, not even herself. The fairy-like beauty of the place helped her; in England beauty would not have struck her, because she knew English scenery so well that it had become cheap in her eyes. In Paris everything was strange, even the noises which she heard in the streets. That, and the foreign tongue, the different race and the swiftly moving kaleidoscope of events ever since her wedding, all helped to strengthen the fancy that the honeymoon was a dream, sometimes pleasant, sometimes evil. It was a new word, a new Stephen, and—yes, a new Elizabeth. She knew that Stephen’s patience and his understanding were qualities not many men possessed: instinct told her that. She was immensely grateful to him for his consideration and his forbearance, but the depths of her nature were unstirred by his passion. She felt only distaste, which must, she knew, be hidden.

She would not permit herself to think of Miss Arden, because her thoughts would have been laden with bitterness. It was inconceivable that she could criticise or condemn her aunt’s actions. She had a feeling that Aunt Anne had betrayed her—no not quite that:—let her down. She must not think, then, of Aunt Anne, who had allowed her to take this irrevocable step with her eyes blindfolded.

Yet there was much in the new life that was more delightful than anything she had ever known. There was always someone at hand whose only task in life seemed to be to care for her and give her everything she might want. Her smallest wish was gratified at once; her frown made Stephen anxious, her smile made him happy. The sense of power this gave her was wonderful; it was wonderful too to be everything in one man’s eyes.

The ornate decoration of their bedroom in the hotel at Paris, its gilt and brocade furniture and general opulence, and its total dissimilarity from any other bedroom she had known, made it easier for her to see, without embarrassment, Stephen’s shirt flung over a chair, and his pajamas on the bed.