"Oh, it can't be Elsa. Why, they are coming here in the yacht to-morrow, to spend a week at Edge Willoughby. Something connected with business, it must be."
"I don't think so, from his manner; but we shall see. Imagine those other two honey-moonists turning up to-morrow. I wonder if they enjoyed themselves as much as you and I did?"
"They couldn't!" cried Wyn, letting her work slip from her knee, while she took her husband's face between her hands and caressed it. "No wedding-journey was ever like ours, or ever will be, will it?"
"I don't quite see how it could," he returned, with an air of candid reflection. "Ours was jolly. We'll have another next year, and go further afield, if we can save up enough out of our income."
"My dear silly, we shall save heaps! We are rich, I keep on telling you, but you won't believe it. Do you remember my last month's accounts?"
"They were absurd; but we have not tried housekeeping yet."
"And, as we are going to keep such a great deal of dinner company, our expenses will be heavy indeed."
"My dear girl, reflect! Think of the cost of your preserving-pan!"
"As to you, you have just bought that expensive fowling-piece. Whenever my weekly balance is low, I shall send you out shooting. No more butcher's meat till things come right again."
"Ah! Henry Fowler speaks the truth. I am indeed a hen-pecked husband."