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—