And here, methinks, a reader of novels may perhaps cry out and say, “What manner of man is this, who marries his hero and heroine, and then, instead of leaving them happy for life, and at rest from his uneasy pen and all their other troubles, flows coolly on with their adventures?”

To this I can only reply that the old English novel is no rule to me, and life is; and I respectfully propose an experiment.  Catch eight old married people, four of each sex, and say unto them, “Sir,” or “Madam, did the more remarkable events of your life come to you before marriage or after?” Most of them will say “after,” and let that be my excuse for treating the marriage of Christopher Staines and Rosa Lusignan as merely one incident in their lives; an incident which, so far from ending their story, led by degrees to more striking events than any that occurred to them before they were man and wife.

They returned, then, from their honey tour, and Staines, who was methodical and kept a diary, made the following entry therein:—­

“We have now a life of endurance, and self-denial, and economy, before us; we have to rent a house, and furnish it, and live in it, until professional income shall flow in and make all things easy:  and we have two thousand five hundred pounds left to do it with.”

They came to a family hotel, and Dr. Staines went out directly after breakfast to look for a house.  Acting on a friend’s advice, he visited the streets and places north of Oxford Street, looking for a good commodious house adapted to his business.  He found three or four at fair rents, neither cheap nor dear, the district being respectable and rather wealthy, but no longer fashionable.  He came home with his notes, and found Rosa beaming in a crisp peignoir, and her lovely head its natural size and shape, high-bred and elegant.  He sat down, and with her hand in his proceeded to describe the houses to her, when a waiter threw open the door—­“Mrs. John Cole.”

“Florence!” cried Rosa, starting up.

In flowed Florence:  they both uttered a little squawk of delight, and went at each other like two little tigresses, and kissed in swift alternation with a singular ardor, drawing their crests back like snakes, and then darting them forward and inflicting what, to the male philosopher looking on, seemed hard kisses, violent kisses, rather than the tender ones to be expected from two tender creatures embracing each other.

“Darling,” said Rosa, “I knew you would be the first.  Didn’t I tell you so, Christopher?—­My husband—­my darling Florry!  Sit down, love, and tell me everything; he has just been looking out for a house.  Ah! you have got all that over long ago:  she has been married six months.  Florry, you are handsomer than ever; and what a beautiful dress!  Ah!  London is the place.  Real Brussels, I declare,” and she took hold of her friend’s lace and gloated on it.

Christopher smiled good-naturedly, and said, “I dare say you ladies have a good deal to say to each other.”