From her white gloves to her gypsophylla petticoats, she was a girl any young man would have been glad to spend his shillings on, and her house was going to be as smart and complete as herself. Her father was coming down very handsomely for her wedding, and in addition to his other gifts, was going to lay out the gardens and the greenhouse for them. Counting her silver, tapping her flower-pots to see which was in need of water, trimming bits of raffia with her scissors and putting drops of gum into her geraniums, June would be exactly in her right place. She was already attending a Cookery Class, and had all her household linen marked. And already they were promised any number of presents. "Presents are so useful," she had said to John Willie, "because then you have them, and so often they're the kind of thing you'd put off buying for yourself." It was all going to "do" very splendidly. "I say," said John Willie by and by, "we don't seem to be moving." "The Wheel?" June asked. "Yes. But it will go on in a minute, I expect." "I hope it won't stop long," June replied. John Willie also hoped it would not stop long, but for the life of him he couldn't have told you why he hoped so. Indeed he tried to smother the hope. He tried to smother it because he had an obscure feeling that--that--well, if a reason can smile, that his reason for not wishing to stay up there too long was quietly smiling at him. It seemed to tell him that he and everything about him were enviably all right--safe--thoroughly and entirely comfortable--need have no fears for the future--and that all would continue to be just as comfortable and safe and altogether all right until he should come to die, in a best bed, with eiderdowns, and frilled pillow-cases, and hot bottles, and the certainty of a handsomely appointed funeral a few days later. Few were as sure of their future as that. John Willie was one of the lucky ones.... He moved, not to the windows from which he could look down on the lights of the Promenade and Pier, but to those that were turned to the dark and unseen mountains. Somehow this reason he had for hoping that the car would not stop long seemed to come from there. He told himself that he would be better presently. He had these--bad humours, call them--sometimes. He hid them from June, but Minetta had noticed them, and he knew all about them himself. He turned to June again. "I wonder what's happened," he said. "It's--it's quite safe, isn't it?" June asked. "Oh, quite." His lips compressed a little. It was quite safe--neither more nor less safe than everything else in John Willie's life. That, somehow, was at the bottom of these ill-humours of his. "Dash it," he muttered.... "It is a nuisance," June agreed. "But I don't suppose Minetta will be anxious." "I wasn't thinking of Minetta," John Willie replied.