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When Mary and John, followed by Miss Bussey–they outstripped her in their eagerness–entered the hotel, a young man with an eye-glass was just engaging a bedroom. John took his place beside the stranger, and asked in a voice, which he strove to render calm, if there were any letters for—-.

“Beg pardon, sir. In one moment,” said the clerk, and he added to Laing, “Number 37, sir.” Laing–Oh, the irony of things!–turned on John and his companion just that one supercilious glance which we bestow on other tourists, and followed his baggage upstairs.

“Anything,” resumed John, “for Miss Travers or Mr. Ashforth?” And he succeeded in looking as if he did not care a straw whether there were or not.

After a search the porter answered, “Nothing, sir.”

“What?” exclaimed John, aghast? “Oh, nonsense, look again.”

Another search followed; it was without result.

John saw Mary’s appealing eyes fixed on him.

“Nothing,” he said tragically.

“Oh, John!”

“Have you taken the rooms, Mr. Ash forth?” inquired Miss Bussey.

“No. I’m sorry. I forgot all about them.”

Miss Bussey was tired; she had been seasick, and the train always made her feel queer.

“Has neither of you got an ounce of wits about you?” she demanded, and plunged forward to the desk. John and Mary received their numbers in gloomy silence, and mounted the stairs.

Now Arthur Laing in his hasty survey of the party had arrived at a not unnatural but wholly erroneous conclusion. He had seen a young man, rather nervous, a young woman, looking anxious and shy, and an elderly person, plainly dressed (Miss Bussey was no dandy) sitting (Miss Bussey always sat as soon as she could) on, a trunk. He took John and Mary for a newly married couple, and Miss Bussey for an old family servant detailed to look after her young mistress’s entry into independent housekeeping.

“More infernal honeymooners,” he said to himself, as he washed his hands. “The place is always full of ’em. Girl wasn’t bad-looking, though.”

The next morning, unhappily, confirmed him in his mistake. For Miss Bussey, overcome by the various trials of the day before, kept her bed, and when Laing came down, the first sight which met his eyes was a breakfast-table, whereat Mary and John sat tete-a-tete. He eyed them with that mixture of scorn and envy which their supposed situation awakens in a bachelor’s heart, and took a place from which he could survey them at leisure. There is a bright side to everything; and that of Laing’s mistake was the pleasure he derived from his delusion. Sticking his glass firmly in his eye, he watched like a cat for those playful little endearments which his cynical mood–he was, like many of us, not at his best in the morning–led him to anticipate. He watched in vain. The young people were decorum itself; more than that, they showed signs of preoccupation; they spoke only occasionally, and then with a business-like brevity.

Suddenly the waiter entered, with a hand fid of letters which he proceeded to distribute. Laing expected none, and kept his gaze on his honeymooners. To his surprise they showed animation enough now; their eyes were first on the waiter’s approaching form; the bridegroom even rose an inch or two from his seat; both stretched out their hands.

Alas, with a little bow, a smile, and a shrug, the waiter passed by, and the disappointed couple sank back, with looks of blank despair.

Surely here was enough to set any open-minded man on the right track! Yes; but not enough to free one who was tied and bound to his own theory.

“She’s dashed anxious to hoar from home!” mused Laing. “Poor girl! It ain’t over and above flattering to him, though.”

He finished his breakfast and went out to smoke. Presently he saw his friends come out also; they went to the porter’s desk and he hoard one of them say “telegram.” A sudden idea struck him.

“I am an ass!” said he. “Tell you what it is they’ve wired for rooms somewhere–Monte, most likely–and can’t start till they get an answer.”