He might call her wife, but she refused to give him his wedding night. Standing on tiptoe, on a joint-stool, placed upon the bench, with his back to the door, and a clasp-knife in his hand, this youngster, instead of executing his appointed task, was occupied in carving his name upon a beam, overhead. She fell into another depression, refusing to touch Sebastian or call him husband when he demanded it. "Beg pardon," he said, "but isn't smoking allowed in the dining room?" "It probably is," answered Prudence, "but that in no wise mitigates the odiousness of the procedure. Poor young lady! She trembled too, and was unable to give her evidence. That’s what I mean. He hadn't played fair. And empty. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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