"Nothing of the sort," said the stout lady. "I booked my seat on Monday,
and you told me any of the front places were vacant.

"I'LL take the back place," I said, "I don't mind it.

"You stop where you are, young 'un," said the clerk, firmly, "and don't
be a fool. I'll fix HER."

I objected to his language, but his tone was kindness itself.

"Oh, let ME have the back seat," said Minnie, rising, "I'd so like it."

For answer the coachman put both his hands on her shoulders. He was a
heavy man, and she sat down again.

"Now then, mum," said the clerk, addressing the stout lady, "are you
going up there in the middle, or are you coming up here at the back?"

"But why not let one of them take the back seat?" demanded the stout
lady, pointing her reticule at Minnie and myself; "they say they'd like
it. Let them have it."

The coachman rose, and addressed his remarks generally.

"Put her up at the back, or leave her behind," he directed. "Man and
wife have never been separated on this coach since I started running it
fifteen year ago, and they ain't going to be now."

A general cheer greeted this sentiment. The stout lady, now regarded
as a would-be blighter of love's young dream, was hustled into the back
seat, the whip cracked, and away we rolled.

So here was the explanation. We were in a honeymoon district, in
June--the most popular month in the whole year for marriage. Every two
out of three couples found wandering about the New Forest in June are
honeymoon couples; the third are going to be. When they travel anywhere
it is to the Isle of Wight. We both had on new clothes. Our bags
happened to be new. By some evil chance our very umbrellas were new.
Our united ages were thirty-seven. The wonder would have been had we NOT
been mistaken for a young married couple.

A day of greater misery I have rarely passed. To Minnie, so her aunt
informed me afterwards, the journey was the most terrible experience of
her life, but then her experience, up to that time, had been limited.
She was engaged, and devotedly attached, to a young clergyman; I was
madly in love with a somewhat plump girl named Cecilia who lived with
her mother at Hampstead. I am positive as to her living at Hampstead. I
remember so distinctly my weekly walk down the hill from Church Row to
the Swiss Cottage station. When walking down a steep hill all the weight
of the body is forced into the toe of the boot, and when the boot is two
sizes too small