The Argosy — page 360: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

344 “We Fell Out, my Wife and I.” honour to the Blundells to have such an angel as my Celia intro- duced among them, I left her to mourn over my degeneracy and wilfulness and to prophesy that no good would come of it. Our wedding took place in May—a proverbially unlucky month— but we both of us scomed such superstition. Our original intention had been to spend a fortnight of our honeymoon in Paris and the remaining fortnight in London; but some short time before our wedding-day Matthew Dobson, Celia’s great-uncle and godfather, must needs take it into his head to offer us the loan of his villa at St. Bridgets-super-Mare. I was at first for refusing it with thanks, but Celia’s mother, whether from the fact that she had expectations from Uncle Matthew and was afraid of offending him, or from an idea that it was the fashionable thing to do, pressed Celia to accept ; and I—TI was far too happy to care very much where I went, so long as Celia went with me. So to St. Bridgets we went. I must say the weather was most unkind to us. The two first days of our stay at Montenotte (as Mr. Dobson had called his villa) were days of continual rain, utterly precluding any idea of leaving the house; and when the third day came and there was still no sign of a clear, I began to regret that I had given up our Paris plan so easily. The house was comfortable enough, but to me, who have always been to a mild extent a follower of the esthetic school, the style of furniture was depressingly ugly. The royal blue repp curtains of the drawing-room, and the corner brackets covered with emerald green velvet, and trimmed with macramé lace, set my teeth on edge. The walls were spattered with plates, most of them of absolutely worth- less china, and Mr. Dobson’s artistic proclivities were further evidenced by a badly-modelled alabaster Cupid and Psyche under a glass shade in the middle of a large mahogany table, and an un- doubted (!) Carlo Dolci Holy Family which hung over the fireplace, carefully shrouded from view by a red moreen curtain. As I logk back to that room in my mind’s eye, I consider that I had some excuse for feeling out of temper ! I*do not think I should have been so much aggravated by my surroundings, if I could have, so to speak, “let off steam,” by expressing my horror of them to Celia. But she appeared quite satisfied, even delighted with everything; and I ask any married man if there is anything more trying to moral fibre than to see the wife of your bosom calmly, placidly good-tempered, when you your- self are seething with suppressed ill-bumour ? I made one attempt to improve matters by suggesting that it might be a good plan if we were to put away in some box the white crochet antimacassars with which the drawing-room was plentifully adorned until we were going away. But Celia looked puzzled. ** What a funny idea, Dick!” she said. ‘‘ Why should you want to do that ?” CORNICE LOOKS (GO) i