He lit a cigarette gaily.  He could not guess that untoward destiny was waiting for him close by the newspaper kiosque.

A little girl was leaning against the palisade there, and gazing somewhat restlessly about her.  A quite little girl, aged, perhaps, eleven, dressed in blue serge, with a short frock and long legs, and a sailor hat (H.M.S. Formidable), and long hair down her back, and a mild, twinkling, trustful glance.  Somewhat untidy, but nevertheless the image of grace.

She saw him first.  Otherwise he might have fled.  But he was right upon her before he saw her.  Indeed, he heard her before he saw her.

“Good afternoon, Mr Coe.”

“Mimi!”

The Vaillacs were in Brighton!  He had chosen practically the other end of the world for his honeymoon, and lo! by some awful clumsiness of fate the Vaillacs were at the same end!  The very people from whom he wished to conceal his honeymoon until it was over would know all about it at the very start!  Relations between the two Olives would be still more strained and difficult!  In brief, from optimism he swung violently back to darkest pessimism.  What could be worse than to be caught red-handed in a surreptitious honeymoon?

She noticed his confusion, and he knew that she noticed it.  She was a little girl.  But she was also a little woman, a little Frenchwoman, who spoke English perfectly—­and yet with a difference!  They had flirted together, she and Mr Coe.  She had a new mother now, but for years she had been without a mother, and she would receive callers at her father’s house (if he happened to be out) with a delicious imitation of a practised hostess.

He raised his hat and shook hands and tried to play the game.

“What are you doing here, Mimi?” he asked.

“What are you doing here?” she parried, laughing.  And then, perceiving his increased trouble, and that she was failing in tact, she went on rapidly, with a screwing up of the childish shoulders and something between a laugh and a grin:  “It’s my back.  It seems it’s not strong.  And so we’ve taken an ever so jolly little house for the autumn, because of the air, you know.  Didn’t you know?”

No, he did not know.  That was the worst of strained relations.  You were not informed of events in advance.

“Where?” he asked.

“Oh!” she said, pointing.  “That way.  On the road to Rottingdean.  Near the big girls’ school.  We came in on that lovely electric railway—­along the beach.  Have you been on it, Mr Coe?”

Terrible!  Rottingdean was precisely the scene of his honeymoon.  The hazard of fate was truly appalling.  He and his wife might have walked one day straight into the arms of her sister!  He went hot and cold.

“And where are the others?” he asked nervously.

“Mamma”—­she coloured as she used this word, so strange on her lips—­“mamma’s at home.  Father may come to-night.  And Ada has brought us here so that Jean can have his hair cut.  He didn’t want to come without me.”