He was not disappointed. Sustained by Heidsieck and the stewardess, Mrs. Walford stayed below, as usual, and he tasted the responsibility of having the girl in his charge. He let the flavour dissolve on his palate slowly. It was as if they were already on the honeymoon, he thought, as they paced the deck together, or he made her comfortable in a chair and brought her strawberries; he watched her eat them with amused interest, vaguely conscious that he found it wonderful to see her mouth unclose and a delicate forefinger and thumb grow pinky. "You are sure you have the address right?" she asked. "Humphrey, fancy if you lost it and could never find us again after we said good-bye to-day! Wouldn't it be awful?" "Awful!" "Such a thing might happen," she declared. "You try and try your hardest to remember where we told you we lived, but you can't. It is terrible! You go mad----" "Or to a post-office," he said. She laughed gaily. "How could you write to me when you'd forgotten the address? You _foolish_ fellow! There, _I_ was brighter than _you_ that time." He felt it would be prolix to explain that he was thinking of a directory, and not of stamps. "Come, after that, I must really hear if you've learnt your lesson! What is it? Quick!" "You live in a house called The Hawthorns," he said--"one of the houses. You would have called it The Cedars, only that was the name of the house next door. I take the train to Streatham Hill--I must be very particular to say 'Hill,' or catastrophes will happen. To begin with, I shall lose an hour of your society----" "And dinner--dinner will certainly be over!" "Dinner will certainly be over. When I come out, I turn to the right, pass the estate agent's, take the first to the left, and recollect that I'm looking for a bow-window and a white balcony, and a fence that makes it impossible to see them. Do I know it?" "Not 'impossible.' But--yes, I'll trust you." He parted from the women at Victoria, and, getting into a hansom, gave himself up to reflection. The rooms that he shared with Turquand were in the convenient, if unfashionable, neighbourhood of Soho, and an all-pervading odour of jam reminded him presently that he was nearing his destination. He wasn't sure of finding Turquand in at this hour. He opened the door with his latchkey, and, dragging his portmanteaus into the passage, ran upstairs. The journalist, in his shirt-sleeves, was reading an evening paper, with his slippered feet crossed on the window-sill. "Hallo!" he said; "you've got back?" "Yes," said Humphrey. "How the jam smells!" "It's raspberry to-day. I've come to the conclusion that the raspberry's the most penetrating. How are you?" "Dry, and hungry too. Is there anything to drink in the place?"