The wedding guests had departed; the servant had cleared the table;
they were alone.

Helena was comparatively calm, but he felt exceedingly nervous. The
period of their engagement had been enhanced by conversations on
serious subjects. They had never behaved liked ordinary, every-day
fiances, had never embraced or kissed. Whenever he had attempted the
smallest familiarity, her cold looks had chilled his ardour. But he
loved her as a man loves a woman, with body and soul.

They fidgeted about the drawing-room and tried to make conversation.
But an obstinate silence again and again reasserted itself. The
candles in the chandelier had burnt low and the wax fell in greasy
drops on the carpet. The atmosphere was heavy with the smell of food
and the fumes of the wines which mingled with the voluptuous perfume
of carnations and heliotrope, exhaled by Helena's bridal bouquet that
lay on a side-table.

At last he went up to her, held out his arms, and said in a voice
which he hoped sounded natural:

"And now you are my wife!"

"What do you mean?" was Helena's brusque reply.

Completely taken aback, he allowed his arms to drop to his sides. But
he pulled himself together again, almost immediately, and said with a
self-conscious smile: