“Oh, it’s going to be very quiet--there will only be ourselves, Dr. Ramsay, my aunt, and Edward’s best man.” “Then mayn’t I come?” asked Branderton. Bertha looked quickly at Edward; it had caused her some uneasiness to think that he might be supported by a person of no great consequence in the place. After all she was Miss Ley; and she had already discovered that some of her lover’s friends were not too desirable. Chance offered her means of surmounting the difficulty. “I’m afraid it’s impossible,” she said, in answer to Branderton’s appeal, “unless you can get Edward to offer you the important post of best man.” She succeeded in making the pair thoroughly uncomfortable. Branderton had no great wish to perform that office for Edward--“of course, Craddock is a very good fellow, and a fine sportsman, but not the sort of chap you’d expect a girl like Bertha Ley to marry.” And Edward, understanding the younger man’s feelings, was silent. But Branderton had some knowledge of polite society, and broke the momentary pause. “Who is going to be your best man, Craddock?” he asked; he could do nothing else. “I don’t know--I haven’t thought of it.” But Branderton, catching Bertha’s eye, suddenly understood her desire and the reason of it. “Won’t you have me?” he said quickly. “I dare say you’ll find me intelligent enough to learn the duties.” “I should like it very much,” answered Craddock. “It’s very good of you.” Branderton looked at Bertha, and she smiled her thanks; he saw she was pleased. “Where are you going for your honeymoon?” he asked now, to make conversation. “I don’t know,” answered Craddock. “We’ve hardly had time to think of it yet.” “You certainly are very vague in all your plans.” He shook hands with them, receiving from Bertha a grateful pressure, and went off. “Have you really not thought of our honeymoon, foolish boy?” asked Bertha. “No!” “Well, I have. I’ve made up my mind and settled it all. We’re going to Italy, and I mean to show you Florence and Pisa and Siena. It’ll be simply heavenly. We won’t go to Venice, because it’s too sentimental; self-respecting people can’t make love in gondolas at the end of the nineteenth century.... Oh, I long to be with you in the South, beneath the blue sky and the countless stars of night.” “I’ve never been abroad before,” he said, without much enthusiasm. But her fire was quite enough for two. “I know, I shall have the pleasure of unfolding it all to you. I shall enjoy it more than I ever have before; it’ll be so new to you. And we can stay six months if we like.” “Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” he cried. “Think of the farm.” “Oh, bother the farm. It’s our honeymoon, _Sposo mio_.” “I don’t think I could possibly stay away more than a fortnight.” “What nonsense! We can’t go to Italy for a fortnight. The farm can get on without you.” “And in January and February too, when all the lambing is coming on.”