Her tail is wagging with the strong and untiring regularity of a pendulum, and a smirk of welcome and recognition is on her face.

Roger's arm is round me, and we are holding each other's hands, but we are no longer in heaven.

I could not tell you _why_, but we are not.

Some stupid constraint--quite of earth--has fallen upon me.

Where are all those most tender words, those profuse endearments with which I meant to have greeted him?
"And so it is actually true!" he says, with a long-drawn sigh of relief; his eyes wandering round the room, and taking in all the familiar objects; "there is no mistake about it! I am actually holding your real live hand" (turning it gently about and softly considering the long slight fingers and pink palm)--"in mine! Ah! my dear, how often, how often I have held it so in my dreams! Have you ever" (speaking with a sort of doubtfulness and uncertain hope)--"have you ever--no, I dare say not--so held mine ?" The diffident passion in his voice for once destroys that vile constraint, dissipates that idiotic sense of bashfulness.
"_Scores_ of times!" I answer, letting my head drop on his shoulder, and not taking the trouble to raise it again.
"I never _used_ to think myself of a very nervous turn!" he says, presently, with a smile.