“I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. The air was crisp and dry. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs. The sun was setting when she carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of mildewy lettuce. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. Her back arched slightly in response. .
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