Mrs. Woodward was of the same opinion, and said so to her husband when, on laying his night-capped head on the conjugal pillow that evening, he began to sound her as to the prospects of escape from the dilatory posts, which, to tell truth, afforded him daily occupation. For on the stroke of eleven he could fuss round, watch in hand, counting the minutes of delay, and, after Donald had come and gone, there was always that letter to the _Times_, exposing the iniquity of whiskey bottles and pounds of tea in Her Majesty's mail bag, to be composed against Lord George's return from the hill to the smoking-room, when it had to be read aloud, amended, discussed, and finally set aside till the next day. Then Donald would be later than ever, and Mr. Woodward, tempted by the thought of detailing still more horrible delinquencies, would withhold his letter for further amendment. "I suppose it is all right, mamma," he began cautiously. "At least, I noticed that the young people seemed to be--er--getting on to-day." "Quite right," yawned the partner of his joys and sorrows. "How lucky it was that Jack had to go to Riga about that tallow business." Even in the dark, with his head in night-cap, Mr. Woodward's paternal dignity bristled. "Lucky! You speak, my dear, as if he had had claims, and I deny----" "You can deny what you please, Mr. Woodward. I think it was lucky, for now he need know nothing of the engagement till he returns." "Perhaps. My dear, by the way, have you any idea when the engagement is likely to--ahem--er--come off?" Mrs. Woodward yawned once, twice. This was a detail scarcely sufficient to warrant her being kept awake. "I can't say--not till we are going to leave, I should think. That sort of thing breaks up a party dreadfully. Why?" Mr. Woodward sighed. "Only the posts really are so irregular. As I said in my letter of to-day----" But this was too much for anyone's patience. "You can tell me to-morrow, my dear," said the wife of his bosom, firmly. "I shouldn't wonder if it were later than ever, for Lady George told me it was fair day, or fast day, or something of that sort in Oban." Mr. Woodward gave a groan, and turned over to compose a still more scathing report of the Gleneira mail.