Mrs. Craddock. W. Somerset Maugham

in nothing but the stupidity of other people. . . . Poor woman, she has never been in love! But we won't have any secrets from one another, Eddie. I know that you will never hide anything from me, and I—What can I do that is not at your telling?"

      "It's a funny letter," he replied, looking at it again.

      "But we're free now, darling," she said. "The house is ready for us; shall we go at once?"

      "But we haven't been here a fortnight yet," he objected.

      "What does it matter? We're both sick of London; let us go home and start our life. We're going to lead it for the rest of our days, so we'd better begin it quickly. Honeymoons are stupid things."

      "Well, I don't mind. By Jove, fancy if we'd gone to Italy for six weeks."

      "Oh, I didn't know what a honeymoon was like. I think I imagined something quite different."

      "You see I was right, wasn't I?"

      "Of course you were right," she answered, flinging her arms round his neck; "you're always right, my darling. . . . Ah! you can't think how I love you."