Though Mr. Sponge’s thoughts did not travel in quite such a luxurious first-class train as the foregoing, he, Mr. Sponge, being more of a two-shirts-and-a-dicky sort of man, yet still the future ways and means weighed upon his mind, and calmed the transports of his present joy.  Lucy was an angel! about that there was no dispute.  He would make her Mrs. Sponge at all events.  Touring about was very expensive.  He could only counterbalance the extravagance of inns by the rigid rule of giving nothing to servants at private houses.  He thought a nice airy lodging in the suburbs of London would answer every purpose, while his accurate knowledge of cab-fares would enable Lucy to continue her engagement at the Royal Amphitheatre without incurring the serious overcharges the inexperienced are exposed to.  ‘Where one can dine, two can dine,’ mused Mr. Sponge; ’and I make no doubt we’ll manage matters somehow.’

‘Twopence for your thoughts!’ cried Lucy, trotting up, and touching him gently on the back with her light silver-mounted riding-whip.  ’Twopence for your thoughts!’ repeated she, as Mr. Sponge sauntered leisurely along, regardless of the bitter cold, followed by such of the hounds as chose to accompany him.

‘Ah!’ replied he, brightening up; ’I was just thinking what a deuced good run we’d had.’

‘Indeed!’ pouted the fair lady.

‘No, my darling; I was thinking what a very pretty girl you are,’ rejoined he, sidling his horse up, and encircling her neat waist with his arm.

A sweet smile dimpled her plump cheeks, and chased the recollection of the former answer away.

It would not be pretty—­indeed, we could not pretend to give even the outline of the conversation that followed.  It was carried on in such broken and disjointed sentences, eyes and squeezes doing so much more work than words, that even a reporter would have had to draw largely upon his imagination for the substance.  Suffice it to say that, though the thermometer was below zero, they never moved out of a foot’s pace; the very hounds growing tired of the trail, and slinking off one by one as the opportunity occurred.

A dazzling sun was going down with a blood-red glare, and the partially softened ground was fast resuming its fretwork of frost, as our hero and heroine were seen sauntering up the western avenue to Nonsuch House, as slowly and quietly as if it had been the hottest evening in summer.

‘Here’s old Coppertops!’ exclaimed Captain Seedeybuck, as, turning round in the billiard-room to chalk his cue, he espied them crawling along.  ’And Lucy!’ added he as he stood watching them.

‘How slowly they come!’ observed Bob Spangles, going to the window.

‘Must have tired their horses,’ suggested Captain Quod.

‘Just the sort of man to tire a horse,’ rejoined Bob Spangles.

‘Hate that Sponge,’ observed Captain Cutitfat.

‘So do I,’ replied Captain Quod.