"I cannot tell; I suppose I must not take more than six weeks' holiday."
"Well, I would not write to old St. George till you come back."
"I am not sure about that; I—"
"Here is Miss—I mean Mrs. Wilton," interrupted Moncrief.
With sweet, grave simplicity, Ella offered a parting kiss to her husband's friend. Mrs. Kershaw stepped jauntily to open the door. A hearty hand-pressure from Moncrief, whose rugged countenance was sorrowfully sympathetic, and the newly-wedded pair were away.
"Won't you step in, sir, and take another glass of wine?" said Mrs. Kershaw, with startling hospitality, to the uneasy major, who felt in comparative captivity, and by no means equal to the occasion.
"No; I am much obliged to you," said the major, edging toward the door.
"A little bit of pigeon-pie, or a mouthful of cheese, or a drop of stout to wind up with," persisted Mrs. Kershaw. "You may say what you like, there's nothing picks you up like a drop of stout."
"No, I thank you; nothing more."