‘Chance acquaintances are not to be depended upon,’ said Mrs Frank Abbot sententiously.
Then, as was but natural, they talked of other things, and dismissed Mr John Jones from their happy minds.
During the last week, they had held many debates as to where they should spend the honeymoon. As yet, they had only partially settled the important point. By Millicent’s express wish, the first week was to be passed at Clifton. ‘Dear old Clifton!’ she said. ‘We met there first; remember that, sir!’ Frank did not particularly want to go to Clifton, but he yielded without a murmur. Whether it should be Switzerland, Italy, France, Scotland, or Ireland afterwards, was to be decided at their leisure. So the brougham drove to Paddington, and Mr and Mrs Frank Abbot took the train for the west.
They spent five happy days at Clifton; although they knew the scenery by heart, it looked more beautiful than ever under the present auspices. Then Frank began to talk about going elsewhere; but Millicent seemed in no hurry to make a move. ‘I wonder, Frank,’ she said one evening, ‘you don’t go over and have a look at your old home.’
‘I haven’t the heart to go,’ sighed Frank. ‘I might have gone by myself; but I can’t stand it with you. I shall be thinking all the while how you would have graced it.’
‘Who lives there now?’
‘A Mr Tompkinson—a London merchant.’
‘I should so like to see the place, Frank! Do take me to-morrow.’
Frank, who, in truth, was longing to have a look at the old place, consented. They decided to go the next day. ‘We will have a carriage, and drive,’ said Frank.
‘What extravagance!’ said Millicent.