“My dear, they’re very full, but two French gentlemen were kind enough to give up their room to us, and the landlady’ll put them out somewhere—­”

“What, you and I both squashed into one room!” exclaimed her ladyship, forgetful, in haughty horror, of her lodging-house background.

“But it’s all they have.  It’s that or the motor, since you won’t risk—­”

“Oh, very well, then, I suppose it can’t kill me!” groaned the bride, stepping out of the car as if from tumbril to scaffold.

What a way to take an adorable adventure!  I was sorry for Sir Samuel, but dimly I felt that I ought to be still sorrier for a woman temperamentally unable to enjoy anything as it ought to be enjoyed.  Next year, maybe, she will look back on the experience and tell her friends that it was “fun”; but oh, the pity of it, not to gather the flowers of the Present, to let them wither, and never pluck them till they are dried wrecks of the Past!

I was ready to dance for joy as I followed her ladyship into the miniature hall which, if not quite so alluring when viewed from the inside, had a friendly, welcoming air after the dark mountains and cold white moonlight.  I didn’t know yet what arrangements had been made for my stable accommodation, if any, but I felt that I shouldn’t weep if I had to sit up all night in a warm kitchen with a purry cat and a snory dog.

The stairs were bare, and our feet clattered crudely as we went up, lighted by a stout young girl with bared arms, who carried a candle.  “What a hole!” snapped Lady Turnour; but when the door of a bedroom was opened for her by the red-elbowed one, she cried out in despair.  “Is this where you expect me to sleep, Samuel?  I’m surprised at you!  I’m not sure it isn’t an insult!”

“My darling, what can I do?” implored the unfortunate bridegroom.

The red-elbowed maiden, beginning to take offence, set the candlestick down on a narrow mantelpiece, with a slap, and removed herself from the room with the dignity of a budding Jeanne d’Arc.  We all three filed in, I in the rear; and for one who won’t accept the cup of life as the best champagne the prospect certainly was depressing.

The belongings of the “two gentlemen” who were giving up their rights in a lady’s favour, had not yet been transferred to the “somewhere outside.”  Those slippers under the bed could have belonged to no species of human being but a commercial traveller; and on the table and one chair were scattered various vague collars, neckties, and celluloid cuffs.  There was no fire in the fireplace, nor, by the prim look of it, had there ever been one in the half century or so since necessity called for an inn to be built.

I snatched from the chair a waistcoat tangled up in some suspenders, and Lady Turnour, flinging herself down in her furs, burst out crying like a cross child.

“If this is what you call adventure, Samuel, I hate it,” she whimpered.  “You would bring me motoring!  I want a fire.  I want hot water.  I want them now.  And I want the room cleared and all these awful things taken away this instant.  I don’t consider them decent.  Whatever happens, I shan’t dream of getting into that bed to-night, and I don’t feel now as if I should eat any dinner.”