Mrs. Craddock. W. Somerset Maugham

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      My dearest Bertha,—I am much obliged to your husband for his politeness in asking me to stay at Court Leys; but I flatter myself you have too high an opinion of me to think me capable of accepting. Newly married people offer much matter for ridicule (which, they say, is the noblest characteristic of man, being the only one that distinguishes him from the brutes); but since I am a peculiarly self-denying creature, I do not avail myself of the opportunity. Perhaps in a year you will have begun to see one another's imperfections, and then, though less amusing, you will be more interesting. No, I am going to Italy—to hurl myself once mere into that sea of pensions and second-rate hotels, wherein it is the Jute of single women, with moderate incomes, to spend their lives; and I am taking with me a Baedeker, so that if ever I am inclined to think myself less foolish than the average mom I may look upon its red cover and remember that I am but human. By the way, I hope you do not show your correspondence to your husband, least of all mine. A man can never understand a woman's epistolary communications, for he reads them with his own simple alphabet of twenty-six letters, whereas he requires one of at least fifty-two; and even that is little. It is madness for a happy pair to pretend to have no secrets from one another: it leads them into so much deception. If, however, as I suspect, you think it your duty to show Edward this note of mine, he will perhaps find it not unuseful for the elucidation of my character, in the study of which I myself have spent many entertaining years.

      I give you no address so that you may not be in want of an excuse to leave this letter unanswered.—Your affectionate Aunt,

      Mary Ley.

      Bertha impatiently tossed the letter to Edward.

      "What does she mean?" he asked, when he had read it.

      Bertha shrugged her shoulders. "She believes in nothing but the stupidity of other people. . . . Poor woman, she has never been in love! But we won't have any secrets from one another, Eddie. I know that you will never hide anything from me, and I—What can I do that is not at your telling?"

      "It's a funny letter," he replied, looking at it again.

      "But we're free now, darling," she said. "The house is ready for us; shall we go at once?"

      "But we haven't been here a fortnight yet," he objected.

      "What does it matter? We're both sick of London; let us go home and start our life. We're going to lead it for the rest of our days, so we'd better begin it quickly. Honeymoons are stupid things."

      "Well, I don't mind. By Jove, fancy if we'd gone to Italy for six weeks."

      "Oh, I didn't know what a honeymoon was like. I think I imagined something quite different."

      "You see I was right, wasn't I?"

      "Of course you were right," she answered, flinging her arms round his neck; "you're always right, my darling. . . . Ah! you can't think how I love you."