Silent, gloom-ridden, my sniffing Mary, my black-browed George laboured to the station. Silent they sat upon a bench waiting the London train. George bought his Mary a piece of chocolate from the automatic machine; she was a forlorn picture as with tiny nibbles she ate it, tears in her pretty eyes. In the restaurant George bought himself a huge cigar. This man was a desperate spectacle as with huge puffs he smoked, hands deep in pockets, legs thrust straight, brows horribly knitted. They had no words. The train came in. George found an empty compartment; helped his poor Mary to a corner; roughly dumped the cat-basket upon the rack; moodily plumped opposite his Mary. They had no words. It was as the train moved from the third stop that Mary, putting a giant sniff upon her emotions, asked her George: “Wher--where are we going, dear?” It was not until the fifth stop that George made answer. “Those Battersea digs,” he told her. They had no words. At Queen's Road station gloomily they alighted; silently laboured to the house of Mrs. Pinking. George answered her surprise. “Miss Humfray will have these rooms again, Mrs. Pinking, if you will be so kind; and I--” He checked. “Could you let us have some tea, Mrs. Pinking? Afterwards I'll have a talk with you. We've got into a--We're very tired. If you could just let us have some tea, then I'll explain.” In silence they ate and drank. George was half turned from the table, gloomily gazing from the window. Tiny sniffs came from his Mary; he had no words for her; looked away. But presently there was a most dreadful choking sound. He sprang around. Most painfully his Mary was spluttering over a cup of tea. With trembling hands she put down the cup; her face was red, convulsively working. George half rose to her. “Don't cry, darling Mary-kins. Don't cry.” She set down the cup; swallowed; gasped, “I'm not crying--I'm la-laughing,” and into a pipe of gayest mirth she went. Gloom gathered its sackcloth skirts; scuttled from the room. George roared with laughter; rocked and roared again. When he could get a catch upon his mirth there was the clear pipe of his Mary's glee, clear, compelling, setting him off again. When she would gasp for breath there was her dear George, head in those brown hands, shaking with tremendous laughter--and she must start again. She gasped: “George! If you could have seen yourself standing there telling those awful stories--!” He gasped: “When I mistook the cats--!” She gasped: “Mr. Marrapit's face--!” He gasped: “Mrs. Major's--!” The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped his running eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her gold hair where it eagerly straggled. “I feel better after that,” George said. She told him, “So do I--heaps. It's no good being miserable over what is past, is it, dear?”