He was as good as good could be, and loved her so, and between the voyages they were so happy.

Surely that must have been sixty years now, and she is so sorry still, and still will not believe that he was drowned." He looked down on her with a smile that had a certain pity in it.
"Well, yes; there are women like that, I believe.

But be very sure, my dear, he beat her.

Of the two, one always holds the whip and uses it, the other crouches." "I do not understand," said Bebee.
"No; but you will." "I will ?--when ?" He smiled again.
"Oh--to-morrow, perhaps, or next year--or when Fate fancies." "Or rather, when I choose," he thought to himself, and let his eyes rest with a certain pleasure on the little feet, that went beside him in the grass, and the pretty fair bosom that showed ever and again, as the frills of her linen bodice were blown back by the wind and her own quick motion.
Bebee looked also up at him; he was very handsome, and looked so to her, after the broad, blunt, characterless faces of the Walloon peasantry around her.

He walked with an easy grace, he was clad in picture-like velvets, he had a beautiful poetic head, and eyes like deep brown waters, and a face like one of Jordaens' or Rembrandt's cavaliers in the galleries where she used to steal in of a Sunday, and look up at the paintings, and dream of what that world could be in which those people had lived.
"_You_ are of the people of Rubes' country, are you not ?" she asked him.
"Of what country, my dear ?" "Of the people that live in the gold frames," said Bebee, quite seriously.