'All right. Sit tight,' said Frank.

A sort of procession was streaming up the hall. There was their fat waiter in front with a large covered cheese-dish. Behind him was another with two smaller ones, and a third with some yellow powder upon a plate was bringing up the rear.

'This is Gorgonzola, main,' said the waiter, with a severe manner.

'And there's Camembert and Gruyere behind, and powdered Parmesan as well. I'm sorry that the Stilton don't give satisfaction.'

Maude helped herself to Gorgonzola and looked very guilty and uncomfortable. Frank began to laugh.

'I meant you to be rude to ME, not to the cheese,' said he, when the procession had withdrawn.

'I did my best, Frank. I contradicted you.'

'Oh, it was a shocking display of temper.'

'And I hurt the poor waiter's feelings.'

'Yes, you'll have to apologise to his Stilton before he will forgive you.'

'And I don't believe he is a bit more convinced that we are veterans than he was before.'

'All right, dear; leave him to me. Those reminiscences of mine must have settled him. If they didn't, then I feel it is hopeless.'

It was as well for his peace of mind that Frank could not hear the conversation between the fat waiter and their chambermaid, for whom he nourished a plethoric attachment. They had half an hour off in the afternoon, and were comparing notes.

'Nice-lookin' couple, ain't they, John?' said the maid, with the air of an expert. 'I don't know as we've 'ad a better since the spring weddin's.'

'I don't know as I'd go as far as that,' said the fat waiter critically. ''E'd pa.s.s all right. 'E's an upstandin' young man with a good sperrit in 'im.'

'What's wrong with 'er, then?'

'It's a matter of opinion,' said the waiter. 'I likes 'em a bit more full-flavoured myself. And as to 'er taste, why there, if you 'ad seen 'er turn up 'er nose at the Stilton at lunch.'

'Turn up 'er nose, did she? Well, she seemed to me a very soft- spoken, obligin' young lady.'

'So she may be, but they're a queer couple, I tell you. It's as well they are married at last.'

'Why?'

'Because they 'ave been goin' on most owdacious before'and. I 'ave it from their own lips, and it fairly made me blush to listen to it.

Awful, it was, AWFUL!'

'You don't say that, John!'

'I tell you, Jane, I couldn't 'ardly believe my ears. They was married on Tuesday last, as we know well, and to-day's Times to prove it, and yet if you'll believe me, they was talkin' about 'ow they 'ad travelled alone abroad--'

'Never, John!'

'And alone in a Swiss 'otel!'

'My goodness!'

'And a steamer too.'

'Well, there! I'll never trust any one again.'

'Oh, a perfec' pair of scorchers. But I'll let 'im see as I knows it. I'll put that Times before 'im to-night at dinner as sure as my name's John.'

'And a good lesson to them, too! If you didn't say you'd 'eard it from their own lips, John, I never could 'ave believed it. It's things like that as shakes your trust in 'uman nature.'

Maude and Frank were lingering at the table d'hote over their walnuts and a gla.s.s of port wine, when their waiter came softly behind them.

'Beg pardon, sir, but did you see it in the Times?'

'See what?'

'THAT, sir. I thought that it might be of interest to you and to your good lady to see it.'

He had laid one page of the paper before them, with his forefinger upon an item in the left-hand top corner. Then he discreetly withdrew. Frank stared at it in horror.

'Maude, your people have gone and put it in.'

'Our marriage!'

'Here it is! Listen! "Crosse--Selby. 30th June, at St. Monica's Church, by the Rev. John Tudwell, M.A., Vicar of St. Monica's, Frank Crosse, of Maybury Road, Woking, to Maude Selby, eldest daughter of Robert Selby, Esq., of St. Albans." Great Scot, Maude! what shall we do?'

'Well, dear, does it matter?'

'Matter! It's simply awful!'

'I don't mind much if they do know.'

'But my reminiscences, Maude! The travels in the Tyrol! The Swiss Hotel! The Stateroom! Great goodness, how I have put my foot into it.'

Maude burst out laughing.

'You old dear!' she cried, 'I don't believe you are a bit better as a conspirator than I am. There's only one thing you can do. Give the waiter half a crown, tell him the truth, and don't conspire any more.'

And so ignominiously ended the attempt which so many have made, and at which so many have failed. Take warning, gentle reader, and you also, gentler reader still, when your own turn comes.

CHAPTER VIII--THE HOME-COMING

The days of holiday were over, and for each of them the duties of life were waiting. For him it was his work, and for her, her housekeeping. They both welcomed the change, for there was a rush and a want of privacy about the hotel life which had been amusing at first, but was now becoming irksome. It was pleasant, as they rolled out of Waterloo Station that summer night, to know that their cosy little home was awaiting them just five-and-twenty miles down the line. They had a first-cla.s.s carriage to themselves--it is astonishing how easy it is for two people to fit into one of those armchair part.i.tions,--and they talked all the way down about their plans for the future. Golden visions of youth, how they can glorify even a suburban villa and four hundred a year! They exulted together over the endless vista of happy days which stretched before them.

Mrs. Watson, Frank's trusty housekeeper, had been left in charge of The Lindens, and he had sent her a telegram the evening before to tell her that they were coming. She had already engaged the two servants, so everything would be ready for them. They pictured her waiting at the door, the neat little rooms with all their useful marriage-presents in their proper places, the lamplight and the snowy cloth laid for supper in the dining-room. It would be ten o'clock before they got there, and that supper would be a welcome sight. It was all delightful to look forward to, and this last journey was the happiest of all their wanderings. Maude wanted to see her kitchen.

Frank wanted to see his books. Both were eager for the fight.