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My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of England in eighteen hundred and–well, never mind the exact date, let us say a few years ago. I was a shy young man at that time. Many complain of my reserve to this day, but then some girls expect too much from a man. We all have our shortcomings. Even then, however, I was not so shy as she. We had to travel from Lyndhurst in the New Forest to Ventnor, an awkward bit of cross-country work in those days.

“It’s so fortunate you are going too,” said her aunt to me on the Tuesday; “Minnie is always nervous travelling alone. You will be able to look after her, and I shan’t be anxious.”

I said it would be a pleasure, and at the time I honestly thought it. On the Wednesday I went down to the coach office, and booked two places for Lymington, from where we took the steamer. I had not a suspicion of trouble.

The booking-clerk was an elderly man. He said–

“I’ve got the box seat, and the end place on the back bench.”

I said–

“Oh, can’t I have two together?”

He was a kindly-looking old fellow. He winked at me. I wondered all the way home why he had winked at me. He said–

“I’ll manage it somehow.”

I said–

“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure.”

He laid his hand on my shoulder. He struck me as familiar, but well-intentioned. He said–

“We have all of us been there.”

I thought he was alluding to the Isle of Wight. I said–

“And this is the best time of the year for it, so I’m told.” It was early summer time.

He said–“It’s all right in summer, and it’s good enough in winter–WHILE IT LASTS. You make the most of it, young ‘un;” and he slapped me on the back and laughed.

He would have irritated me in another minute. I paid for the seats and left him.

At half-past eight the next morning Minnie and I started for the coach-office. I call her Minnie, not with any wish to be impertinent, but because I have forgotten her surname. It must be ten years since I last saw her. She was a pretty girl, too, with those brown eyes that always cloud before they laugh. Her aunt did not drive down with us as she had intended, in consequence of a headache. She was good enough to say she felt every confidence in me.

The old booking-clerk caught sight of us when we were about a quarter of a mile away, and drew to us the attention of the coachman, who communicated the fact of our approach to the gathered passengers. Everybody left off talking, and waited for us. The boots seized his horn, and blew–one could hardly call it a blast; it would be difficult to say what he blew. He put his heart into it, but not sufficient wind. I think his intention was to welcome us, but it suggested rather a feeble curse. We learnt subsequently that he was a beginner on the instrument.

In some mysterious way the whole affair appeared to be our party. The booking-clerk bustled up and helped Minnie from the cart. I feared, for a moment, he was going to kiss her. The coachman grinned when I said good-morning to him. The passengers grinned, the boots grinned. Two chamber-maids and a waiter came out from the hotel, and they grinned. I drew Minnie aside, and whispered to her. I said–

“There’s something funny about us. All these people are grinning.”

She walked round me, and I walked round her, but we could neither of us discover anything amusing about the other. The booking-clerk said–

“It’s all right. I’ve got you young people two places just behind the box-seat. We’ll have to put five of you on that seat. You won’t mind sitting a bit close, will you?”

The booking-clerk winked at the coachman, the coachman winked at the passengers, the passengers winked at one another–those of them who could wink–and everybody laughed. The two chamber-maids became hysterical, and had to cling to each other for support. With the exception of Minnie and myself, it seemed to be the merriest coach party ever assembled at Lyndhurst.