At meal-time, not feeling hungry herself, having nothing to
do to make her hungry, she would occupy herself with watching him
eat; and at night, not feeling sleepy for the same reason, she would
lie awake and listen to his snoring. After the first day or two he
grew tired of talking nonsense, and she of listening to it (it
sounded nonsense now they could speak it aloud; they had fancied it
poetry when they had had to whisper it); and having no other
subject, as yet, of common interest, they would sit and stare in
front of them in silence. One day some trifle irritated him and he
swore. On a busy railway platform, or in a crowded hotel, she would
have said, 'Oh!' and they would both have laughed. From that
echoing desert the silly words rose up in widening circles towards
the sky, and that night she cried herself to sleep. Bustle them, my
dear boy, bustle them. We all like each other better the less we
think about one another, and the honeymoon is an exceptionally
critical time. Bustle her, my dear boy, bustle her."
My very worst honeymoon experience took place in the South of
England in eighteen hundred and--well, never mind the exact date,
let us say a few years ago. I was a shy young man at that time.
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