BRITISH TALES OF THE BUSH: 5 Novels in One Volume (Illustrated). E. W. Hornung

more he does. Not the Pope—Pope; a man of the name of Pope: a scribbler: a writing-man: in fact, a poet.’

      The three were leaning over the rail, shoulder to shoulder, and watching eagerly for the first glimpse of the Judge’s retreat through the intervening trees. Granville was in the middle. The Bride glanced at him sharply, and opened her lips to say something which—judging by the sudden gleam of her dark eyes—might possibly have been rather too plain-spoken. But she never said it; she merely left Granville’s side, and went round to the far side of her husband, and slipped her hand through his arm. Granville walked away.

      ‘Are we there?’ whispered Gladys.

      ‘Just, my darling. Look, that’s the house—the one with the tall trees and the narrow lawn.’

      ‘Hoo-jolly-ray!’

      ‘Hush, Gladdie! For Heaven’s sake don’t say anything like that before my mother! There she is on the lawn, waving her handkerchief. We’ll wave ours back to her. The dear mother! Whatever you do, darling girl, don’t say anything of that sort to her. It would be Greek to my mother and the Judge, and they mightn’t like it.’