"I do hope, Maggie darling," he said, "you don't think it strange
our not going somewhere else for our honeymoon. My lads will be
expecting me back--I was kept longer in London than I should have
been--by you, you little witch. My witch now--"
He put his arm round her waist and urged her head towards his coat.
But her hat, her beautiful hat that had cost so much more than she
had ever spent on a hat before, was in the way. It struck into his
chin. They were both uncomfortable and then, thank heaven, the train
slowed down; they were at a station and some one got into their
carriage, a stout man, all newspaper and creases to his trousers.
That, in the circumstances, was a great relief and soon Maggie
dozed, seeing the telegraph wires and the trees like waving hands
through a mist of sleep.
As she fell asleep she realised that this was only the second time
in all her life that she had been in a train. Some one bawled in her
car "Skeaton! Skeaton!" and she looked up to find a goat-faced
porter gazing at her through the window. She was on a storm-driven
platform, her husband's arm was through hers, she was being helped
into an old faded cab.
Pages:
581
582
583
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605