Busman’s Honeymoon Read Free

dishevelled First-Year, all bones, with a discontented expression. Yesterday she looked like a Renaissance portrait stepped out of its frame. I put it down first of all to the effect of gold lamé, but, on consideration, I think it was probably due to ‘ lerve’ . There was something rather splendid about the way those two claimed one another, as though nothing and nobody else mattered or even existed; he was the only bridegroom I have ever seen who looked as though he knew exactly what he was doing and meant to do it.
      On the way up to Town—oh! by the way. Lord Peter put his foot resolutely down on Mendelssohn and Lohengrin, and we were played out with Bach—the Duke was mercifully taken away from his cross Duchess and handed over to me to entertain. He is handsome and stupid in a county-family kind of way, and looks rather like Henry VIII, de-bloated and de-bearded and brought up to date. He asked me, a little anxiously, whether I thought ‘the girl’ was really keen on his brother, and when I said I was sure of it, confided to me that he had never been able to make Peter out, and had never expected him to settle down, and hoped it would turn out all right, what? Somewhere in the dim recesses of his mind, I think he has a lurking suspicion that Brother Peter may have that little extra something he hasn’t got himself, and that it might even be a good thing to have, if one didn’t have to consider the County.
      The reception at the Dowager’s was great fun—and for once, at a wedding, one got enough to eat!—and drink! The people who came off badly were the unhappy reporters, who by this time had got wind of something, and turned up in battalions. They were firmly collared at the doors by two gigantic footmen, and penned up in a room, with the promise that ‘his lordship would see them in a few moments’.
      Eventually ‘his lordship’ did go to them—not Lord Peter, but Lord Wellwater, the F.O. man, who delivered to them at great length a highly important statement about Abyssinia, to which they didn’t dare not listen. By the time he had finished, our lord and lady had sneaked out of the back door, and all that was left them was a roomful of wedding-presents and the remains of the cake. However, the Dowager saw them and was quite nice to them, so they tooled off, fairly happy, but without any photographs or any information about the honeymoon. As a matter of fact, I don’t believe anybody, except the Dowager, knows where the bride and bridegroom really have gone to.
      Well—that was that; and I do hope they’ll be most frightfully happy. Miss de Vine thinks there is too much intelligence on both sides—but I tell her not to be such a confirmed pessimist. I know heaps of couples who are both as stupid as owls and not happy at all—so it doesn’t really follow, one way or the other, does it?
      Yours ever,
      LETITIA MARTIN
     
    Extracts from the Diary of Honoria Lucasta, Dowager Duchess of Denver
     
       20 May.— Peter rang up this morning, terribly excited, poor darling, to say that he and Harriet were really and truly engaged, and that the ridiculous Foreign Office had ordered him straight off to Rome again after breakfast—so like them—you’d think they did it on purpose. What with exasperation and happiness, he sounded perfectly distracted. Desperately anxious I should get hold of H. and make her understand she was welcome—poor child, it is hard for her, left here to face us all, when she can scarcely feel sure of herself or anything yet. Have written to her at Oxford, telling her as well as I could how very, very glad I was she was making Peter so happy, and asking when she would be in Town, so that I could go and see her. Dear Peter! Hope and pray she really loves him in the way he needs; shall know in a minute when I see her.
     
       21 May.— Was reading The Stars Look Down (Mem. very depressing, and not what I expected from the title—think I must have had a