into a howling wind and launching among zephyrs.  They have fresh air and movement, and not in a railway carriage; they can take in what they look on.  And she has the steering ropes, and that’s a wise commencement.  And my lord is all day making an exhibition of his manly strength, bowing before her some sixty to the minute; and she, to help him, just inclines when she’s in the mood.  And they’re face to face in the nature of things, and are not under the obligation of looking the unutterable, because, you see, there’s business in hand; and the boat’s just the right sort of third party, who never interferes, but must be attended to.  And they feel they’re labouring together to get along, all in the proper proportion; and whether he has to labour in life or not, he proves his ability.  What do you think of it, Miss Middleton?”

“I think you have only to propose it, Colonel De Craye.”

“And if they capsize, why, ’tis a natural ducking!”

“You forgot the lady’s dressing-bag.”

“The stain on the metal for a constant reminder of his prowess in saving it!  Well, and there’s an alternative to that scheme, and a finer:—­This, then:  they read dramatic pieces during courtship, to stop the saying of things over again till the drum of the car becomes nothing but a drum to the poor head, and a little before they affix their signatures to the fatal Registry-book of the vestry, they enter into an engagement with a body of provincial actors to join the troop on the day of their nuptials, and away they go in their coach and four, and she is Lady Kitty Caper for a month, and he Sir Harry Highflyer.  See the honeymoon spinning!  The marvel to me is that none of the young couples do it.  They could enjoy the world, see life, amuse the company, and come back fresh to their own characters, instead of giving themselves a dose of Africa without a savage to diversify it:  an impression they never get over, I’m told.  Many a character of the happiest auspices has irreparable mischief done it by the ordinary honeymoon.  For my part, I rather lean to the second plan of campaign.”

Clara was expected to reply, and she said:  “Probably because you are fond of acting.  It would require capacity on both sides.”

“Miss Middleton, I would undertake to breathe the enthusiasm for the stage and the adventure.”

“You are recommending it generally.”

“Let my gentleman only have a fund of enthusiasm.  The lady will kindle.  She always does at a spark.”

“If he has not any?”

“Then I’m afraid they must be mortally dull.”

She allowed her silence to speak; she knew that it did so too eloquently, and could not control the personal adumbration she gave to the one point of light revealed in, “if he has not any”.  Her figure seemed immediately to wear a cap and cloak of dulness.