As already said, Mrs. Birdwood was a comely woman, and this the other traveller perceived, and was unable to take his eyes off her. If a cat may look at a king, then surely a commercial may gaze on a pretty woman! Mrs. Birdwood did not like it, and put up her hand to let down her veil; unhappily, in her hurry at leaving, she had forgotten her veil. “Christmas coming soon,” said the gentleman; “a time of holly and mince-pies—and above all, of mistletoe! I think I know some one who would like to be under a mistletoe bush with somebody else, unnamed.” “And I think,” said Mrs. Birdwood, “I know some one who would like to have a bunch of holly with which to whack into somebody else—unnamed!” “Going any distance, miss?” asked the bagman. “I don’t quite know where I am going,” inadvertently replied the runaway wife. Then she bit her tongue in vexation at having said what she had. “Let me recommend Sandbourne,” said he confidingly. “A charming place—beautiful beach. Excuse me, I think the ticket you hold—ah! it is for Sandbourne. How happy a coincidence! I am going there as well. If I can be of any assistance with your luggage, command me.” “I have none.” “Indeed! Going to friends?” She was silent. Tears came into her eyes—tears of mortification and anger. “My dear young lady,” said the fellow-passenger, “I trust I have not touched on any tender point. When lovely woman stoops to conquer—especially with tears as her weapons—she is irresistible.” “Really, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Birdwood, “I must request you to desist from these impertinences and this odious familiarity.” “A thousand pardons—I am mute.” On reaching Sandbourne station Mrs. Birdwood dismounted from the train, greatly relieved to be able to shake off the gentleman who had annoyed her. She sought out a modest inn, and then walked down to the shore. “A pretty pass Josiah will be in,” thought she, “when he finds that I am gone! There will be ructions in the house. Well, if he will run after Finches, he must take the consequences. And Christmas coming on as well, and no comforts, no plum-pudding. I’ll be bound that Jemima will serve up the roast beef without any horse-radish—serve him right; and as to Yorkshire pudding, she can’t make it!—very glad. He’ll suffer where most sensitive. Oh!” She saw a large coloured poster. “A circus! I have not seen one since I was a girl. I will go.” But she did not enjoy herself at the horsemanship. Her mind reverted to Jessamine Villa, and to a plum-pudding she had made a month ago, and had put away in a tin to be ready for Christmas. She wished she had brought it with her; but she had left it behind, locked up. Her husband knew nothing about it. The slavey was equally ignorant. Now that costly and excellent plum-pudding would be lost, for she would never go back to Jessamine Villa—never, never within the sound of the name of Finch. That plum-pudding had been made from an excellent recipe given her by her mother—