“I can’t stand all this rot,” he said, when they stood opposite the three goddesses of the Parthenon; “I wouldn’t give twopence to come to this place again.” Bertha felt somewhat ashamed that she had a sneaking admiration for the statues in question. “Now tell me,” he said, “where is the beauty of those creatures without any heads?” Bertha could not tell him, and he was triumphant. He was a dear, good boy and she loved him with all her heart! The Natural History Museum, on the other hand, aroused Craddock to great enthusiasm. Here he was quite at home; no improprieties were there from which he must keep his wife, and animals were the sort of things that any man could understand. But they brought back to him strongly the country of East Kent and the life which it pleased him most to lead. London was all very well, but he did not feel at home, and it was beginning to pall upon him. Bertha also began talking of home and of Court Leys; she had always lived more in the future than in the present, and even in this, the time of her greatest happiness, looked forward to the days to come at Leanham, when complete felicity would indeed be hers. She was contented enough now--it was only the eighth day of her married life, but she ardently wished to settle down and satisfy all her anticipations. They talked of the alterations they must make in the house, Craddock had already plans for putting the park in order, for taking over the Home Farm and working it himself. “I wish we were home,” said Bertha. “I’m sick of London.” “I don’t think I should mind much if we’d got to the end of our fortnight,” he replied. Craddock had arranged with himself to stay in town fourteen days, and he could not alter his mind. It made him uncomfortable to change his plans and think out something new; he prided himself, moreover, on always doing the thing he had determined. But a letter came from Miss Ley announcing that she had packed her trunks and was starting for the continent. “Oughtn’t we to ask her to stay on?” said Craddock. “It seems a bit rough to turn her out so quickly.” “You don’t want to have her live with us, do you?” asked Bertha, in some dismay. “No, rather not; but I don’t see why you should pack her off like a servant with a month’s notice.” “Oh, I’ll ask her to stay,” said Bertha, anxious to obey her husband’s smallest wish; and obedience was easy, for she knew that Miss Ley would never dream of accepting the offer. Bertha wished to see no one just then, least of all her aunt, feeling confusedly that her bliss would be diminished by the intrusion of an actor in her old life. Her emotions also were too intense for concealment, and she would have been ashamed to display them to Miss Ley’s critical instinct. Bertha saw only discomfort in meeting the elder lady, with her calm irony and polite contempt for the things which on her husband’s account Bertha most sincerely cherished.