And the consequence was that, when at last they faced each other across the breakfast-table, blushing modestly beneath the landlady’s unconcealed interest, Mr. Priestley had an uncanny feeling that he really was married to this delightful young woman and that it was all exceedingly pleasant. It quite needed the presence of that handcuff (which, by an ingenious device attached to his braces, he had succeeded in tethering out of sight up his sleeve) to remind him that he was, in fact, not a happy honeymooner without a care in the world, but a fugitive from justice, a clapper of constables into cupboards, a man-slaughterer, and stuffed so full of cares that it was a wonder his second cup of coffee could effect an entrance.
Nevertheless, one anxiety persisted in Mr. Priestley’s mind, in spite of his pleasurable excitement, and the bright chatter of his adopted young wife; he was on tenterhooks to see a newspaper. Sandersworth, it appeared, was not favoured in the matter of newspapers on Sundays. They had, the landlady explained at some length, to be brought specially over from Manstead, and, of course, that took time. Not before ten they couldn’t be expected, and sometimes it was nearer half-past. She took in The News of the World, she did, and Mr. Bracey (such was the pseudonym which Mr. Priestley had cunningly adopted with his married state) should see it as soon as it came, before she ever so much as opened it herself. Mr. Bracey, né Priestley, asked her to buy a sample of each paper available, and concealed his impatience as best he could.
“And now,” said Laura, when she had fulfilled her wifely duty of pouring out that second cup of coffee, “now, what’s the programme? What are we going to do to-day?”
“Well,” said Mr. Priestley tentatively, “we can’t stay here, of course.”
“Of course not,” Laura agreed, not without firmness.
Mr. Priestley looked slightly disappointed, and then slightly ashamed of such unreasonable optimism. “What do you suggest, then?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m leaving all that entirely to you. I’m completely in your hands.” She assumed her famous pathetic air, but in a modified degree. Mr. Priestley, she felt, not without reason, would not be quite so easily taken in by such means in the future as he had been in the past. To tell the truth, Laura was by this time not at all sure of her ground where Mr. Priestley was concerned. At times he was unexpectedly meek and amenable, at others still more unexpectedly the reverse. Ah, well, it all went to make life more interesting.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked in humble tones.
Thus jerked up on to his pedestal of male superiority, Mr. Priestley regarded his companion attentively. What he would really like to do with her, he reflected wickedly, would be to kiss her—like last night, but with the benefit of that experience behind him; every little helps, so far as experience in kissing is concerned. For the first time in his life Mr. Priestley felt a strong desire to try his hand at this interesting art—or should one say his lips?
He pulled himself together. That would never do. Certainly not. Last night had been a privileged occasion. Even a real husband hardly ever kisses his real wife at the breakfast-table; he complains about the bacon instead.