as henry and violet approached the turnstile, henry murmured to violet:

"how much is it? how much is it?"

"one and three, including tax," violet murmured in reply.

half a crown for the two was less than he had feared, but he felt in his trouser-pocket and half a crown was more than he had there, and he slowly pulled out of his breast-pocket an old treasury-note case. the total expenses of the wedding ceremony at the registry had been considerable; he seemed to have been disbursing the whole time since they left clerkenwell for the marriage and honeymoon (which, according to arrangement, was to be limited to one day).

the wedding-breakfast—two covers—at the magnificent, many-floored, music-enlivened, swarming lyons' establishment in oxford street had been—he was prepared to believe—relatively cheap, and there were no tips, and everything was very good and splendid; but really the bill amounted to a lot of money in the judgment of a man who for years had never spent more than sixpence on a meal outside his own home, and whom the mere appearance of luxury frightened. throughout the wedding-breakfast he had indeed been scared by the gilding, the carving, the seemingly careless profusion, the noise, and the vastness of the throng which flung its money about in futile extravagance; he had been unable to dismiss the disturbing notion that england was decadent, and the structure of english society threatened by a canker similar to the canker which had destroyed gibbon's rome. ten shillings and sevenpence[pg 91] for a single repast for two persons! it was fantastic. he had resolved that this should be the last pleasure excursion into the west end. meanwhile, he was on his honeymoon, and he must conduct himself and his purse with the chivalry which a loved woman would naturally, if foolishly, expect.

it was after the wedding-breakfast that violet had, in true feminine capriciousness, suddenly suggested that they should go to madame tussaud's waxworks before the visit to the gorgeous cinema in kingsway, which was the pièce de résistance of the day's programme. she had never seen madame tussaud's (nor had he), and she was sure it must be a very nice place; and they had plenty of time for it. all her life she had longed to see madame tussaud's, but somehow ... etc. not that he needed too much persuading. no! he liked, he adored, the girlishness in that vivacious but dignified and mature creature, so soberly dressed (save for the exciting red flowers in her dark hat). in consenting to gratify her whim he had the sensations of a young millionaire clasping emerald necklaces round the divine necks of stage-favourites. after all, it was only for one day. and she had spoken truly in saying that they had plenty of time. the programme was not to end till late. previous to their departure from riceyman steps on the wedding journey he had seen violet call aside elsie (who was left in charge of the shop), and he doubted not that she had been enjoining the girl to retire to bed before her employers' return. a nice thoughtfulness on violet's part.

withal, as he extracted a pound note from his case, he suffered agony—and she was watching him with her bright eyes. it was a new pound note. the paper was white and substantial; not a crease in it. the dim water-marks whispered genuineness. the green and brown of the design were more beautiful than any picture. the majestic representation of the houses of parliament on the back gave assurance that the solidity of the whole realm was behind that note. the thing was as lovely[pg 92] and touching as a young virgin daughter. could he abandon it for ever to the cold, harsh world?

"here! give it me," said violet sympathetically, and took it out of his hand. what was she going to do with it?

"i've got change," she added, with a smile, her face crinkling pleasantly.

he was relieved. his agony was soothed. at any rate the note was saved for the present; it was staying in the shelter of the family. he felt very grateful. but why should she have taken the note from him?

"thank you, ma'am," said the uniformed turnstile-man, with almost eager politeness as violet put down half a crown. the character of the place had been established at once by the well-trained attendant.

"i'm sure it's a very nice place," violet observed. she was a judge, too. henry agreed with her.

there was a spacious victorianism about the interior, and especially about the ornate, branching staircase, which pleased both of them. crowds moving to and fro! crowds of plain people; no fashion, no distinction; but respectable people, solid people; no riff-raff, no wastrels, adventurers, flighty persons.

"it is a very nice place," violet repeated. "and they're much better than audiences at cinemas, i must say."

of course, she went through the common experience of mistaking a wax figure for a human being, and called herself a silly. suddenly she clutched henry's arm. the clutch gave him a new, delightful sensation of owning and being owned, and also of being a protector.

"oh, dear!" she exclaimed in alarm. "it gave me quite a turn."

"what did?"

"i thought he was a wax figure, that young man there by the settee. i looked at him for ever so long, and he didn't move; and then he moved! i wouldn't like to come here alone. no! that i wouldn't!" thereupon, with a glance of trust, she loosed henry.[pg 93]

for perhaps a couple of decades henry had not been even moderately interested in any woman, and for over a decade not interested at all; he had been absorbed in his secret passion. and now, after a sort of rip van winkle sleep, he was on his honeymoon, and in full realization of the wonderfulness of being married. he felt himself to be exalted into some realm of romance surpassing his dreams. the very place was romantic and uplifted him. he blossomed slowly, late, but he blossomed. and in the crowds he was truly alone with this magical woman. he did not, then, want to kiss her. he would save the kissing. he would wait for it; he was a patient man, and enjoyed the exercise of patience. quite unperturbed, he was convinced, and rightly, that none in the ingenuous crowds could guess the situation of himself and violet. such a staid, quiet, commonplace couple. he savoured with the most intense satisfaction that they were deceiving all the simple creatures who surrounded them. he laughed at youth, scorned it. then his eye caught a sign, "cinematograph hall." ha! was that a device to conjure extra sixpences and shillings from the unwary? he seemed to crouch in alarm, like a startled hare. but the entrance to the cinematograph hall was wide and had no barriers. the cinematograph hall was free. they walked into it. a board said, to empty seats, "next performance four o'clock."

"we must see that," he told violet urgently. she answered that they certainly must, and thereupon, henry having looked at his watch, they turned into the hall of tableaux.

a restful and yet impressive affair, these reconstitutions of dramatic episodes in english history. and there was no disturbing preciosity in the attitude of the sightseers, who did not care a fig what "art" was, to whom, indeed, it would never have occurred to employ such a queer word as "art" even in their thoughts. nor did they worry themselves about composition, lighting, or the theory of the right relation of subject to treatment. nor did they criticize at all. they accepted, and if they could[pg 94] not accept they spared their brains the unhealthy excitement of trying to discover why they could not accept. they just left the matter and passed on. a poor-spirited lot, with not the slightest taste for hitting back against the challenge of the artist. but anyhow they had the wit to put art in its place and keep it there. what interested them was the stories told by the tableaux, and what interested them in the stories told was the "human" side, not the historic importance. king john signing magna charta under the menace of his bold barons, and so laying the foundation stone of british liberty? no! the picture could not move them. but the death of nelson, gordon's last stand, the slip of a girl victoria getting the news of her accession, the execution of mary queen of scots? yes! hundred per cent. successes every one. violet shed a diamond tear at sight of the last. violet said:

"they do say, seeing's believing."

she was fully persuaded at last that english history really had happened. henry's demeanour was more reserved, and a little condescending. he said kindly that the tableaux were very clever, as they were. and he smiled to himself at violet's womanish simplicity—and liked her the better for it, because it increased her charm and gave to himself a secret superiority.

what all the sightseers did completely react to was the distorting mirrors, which induced a never-ceasing loud tinkle and guffaw of mirth through the entire afternoon. violet laughed like anything at the horrid reflection of herself.

"well," she giggled, "they do say you wouldn't know yourself if you met yourself in the street. i can believe it."

rather subtle, that, thought henry, as he smiled blandly at her truly surprising gaiety. he hurried her away to the cinematograph. the hall was full. he had never in his life been to a picture-theatre. why should he have gone? he had never felt the craving for "amusement." he knew just what cinemas were and how they[pg 95] worked, but he did not lust after them. by long discipline he had strictly confined his curiosity to certain fields. but now that the cinema lay gratis to his hand he suddenly burned with a desire to judge it. he refrained from confessing to violet that he had never been to a picture-theatre. as he had already decided that the cinema was a somewhat childish business, he found nothing in the show to affect this verdict. while it was proceeding he explained the mechanism to violet, and also he gave her glimpses of the history of madame tussaud's, which he had picked up from books about london. violet was impressed; and, as she had seen many films far more sensational than those now exhibited, she copied his indifference. nevertheless, henry would not leave until the performance was quite finished. he had a curiously illogical idea in his head that although he had paid nothing he must get his full money's worth.

it was in the upper galleries, amid vast waxen groups of monarchs, princes, princesses, statesmen, murderers, soldiers, footballers and pugilists (violet favoured the queens and princesses) that, to the accompaniment of music from a bright red-coated orchestra, a new ordeal arose for henry.

"i wonder where the chamber of horrors is," said violet. "we haven't come across it yet, have we?"

an attendant indicated a turnstile leading to special rooms—admittance eightpence, tax included. henry was hurt; madame tussaud's fell heavily in his esteem, despite the free cinematograph. it was a scheme to empty the pockets of a confiding public.

"oh!" exclaimed violet, dashed also. she was in a difficult position. she wanted as much as henry to keep down costs, but at the same time she wanted her admired mate to behave in a grand and reckless manner suitable to the occasion.

meeting her glance, henry hesitated. was there to be no end to disbursements? his secret passion fought against his love. he turned pale; he could not speak; he was himself amazed at the power of his passion. full[pg 96] of fine intentions, he dared not affront the monster. then, his throat dry and constricted, he said blandly, with an invisible gesture of the most magnificent and extravagant heroism:

"i hardly think we ought to consider expense on a day like this."

and the monster recoiled, and henry wiped his brow. violet paid the one and fourpence. they entered into a new and more recondite world. relics of napoleon did not attract them, but a notice at the head of a descending flight of steps fascinatingly read, "downstairs to the chamber of horrors." the granite steps presented a grim and awe-inspiring appearance; they might have been the steps into hell. violet shivered and clutched henry's arm again.

"no, no!" she whispered in agitation. "i couldn't face it. i couldn't."

"but we've paid, my dear," said henry, gently protesting.

he, the strong male, took command of the morbidly affected, clinging woman, and led her down the steps. her arm kept saying to him: "i am in your charge. nobody but you could have persuaded me into this adventure...." docks full of criminals of the deepest dye. the genuine jury-box from the original old bailey. recumbent figures in frightful opium dens. reconstitutions of illustrious murder scenes, with glasses of champagne and packs of cards on the tables, and siren women on chairs. wonderful past all wondering! violet was enthralled. quickly she grew calmer, but she never relaxed her hold on him. the souvenirs of incredible crimes somehow sharpened the edge of his feeling for her and inflamed the romance. he remembered with delicious pain how his longing for this unparalleled violet had made him unhappy night and day for weeks, how it had seemed impossible that she could ever be his, this incarnation of the very spirit of vivacity, brightness, energy, dominance. ... and now he dominated her. she attached herself to him, wound round him, the ivy to his oak. she[pg 97] was not young. and thank god she was not young. a nice spectacle he would have made, gallivanting round at the short skirts of some girlish thing! she was ideal, and she was his. the exquisite thought ran to and fro in his head all the time.

"what murder can that be?" she demanded in front of a kitchen interior. she had identified the others.

close by was a lady with a catalogue.

"would you mind telling me what crime this is supposed to be, madam?" henry politely asked, raising his hat. the lady looked at him with a malignant expression.

"can't you buy a catalogue for yourself?"

"vulgar, nasty creature!" muttered violet.

henry said nothing, made no sign. they walked away. he knew that he ought to have bought a catalogue at the start, but he had not bought one, and now he could not. no! he could not. the situation was dreadful, but violet enchantingly eased it.

"everything ought to be labelled," she said. "however——" and she began to talk cheerfully as if nothing had happened.

they passed along a corridor and through a turnstile, and were once again in the less sensational hall of tableaux, and they heard the tinkling, unbridled laughter of girls surveying themselves in the distorting mirrors. henry limped noticeably. violet led the way through the restaurant towards the main hall. tea laid on spotless tables. jam in saucers on the tables. natty, pretty and smiling waitresses.

"i could do with a cup of tea. oh! and there's jam!" exclaimed violet.

henry was shocked. more expense. must they be eating all day? nevertheless, they sat down.

"i'm afraid i'm about done for," said henry sadly, disheartened. "my knee."

his knee was not troubling him in the least, but a desperate plan for cutting short the honeymoon and going home had seized him. he had decided that the one cure for him was to be at home alone with her. he had had[pg 98] enough, more than enough, of the licence of the west end. he wanted tranquillity. he wanted to know where he was.

"your knee. oh, henry! i'm so sorry. what can we do?"

"we can go home," he replied succinctly.

"but the big cinema, and all that?"

"well, we've seen one. i feel i should like to be at home."

"oh, but——!"

violet was strangely disturbed. he could not understand her agitation. surely they could visit the big cinema another night. he was determined. he said to himself that he must either go home or go mad. the monster had come back upon him in ruthless might. to placate the monster he must at any cost bear violet down. he did bear her down, and she surrendered with a soft and deferential amiability which further endeared her to him. they partook of tea and jam; she discharged the bill, and they departed.

"i don't want to be bothered with my lameness on my wedding-day," he said, wistfully smiling, as they got out into the street.