The Well, by W. J.

by W. Jacobs,

Red by Mike Bennett. Two men. country house talking. Play, which had been of a half-hearted nature, was over, and they sat at the open

window looking out over the park stretching away beneath them, conversing idly.

Your time's nearly up, Jem, said one at length.

This time six weeks you'll be yawning out the honeymoon and cursing the man, a woman I mean, who invented them.

Jem Benson stretched out his long limbs in the chair and grunted in dissent.

I've never understood it, continued Wilfred Carr, yawning.

It's not in my line at all.

I never had enough money for my own once, let alone for two. Perhaps if I are as rich as you or

Croesus I might regard it differently. There was just sufficient meaning in the latter part of

the remark for his cousin to forbear to reply to it.

He continued to gaze out of the window and to smoke slowly.

Not being as rich as Creasus or you, resumed car regarding him from beneath lowered lids.

I paddle my own canoe down the stream of time and tying it to my friend's door posts go in to eat

their dinners.

Quite Venetian, said Jem Benson, still looking out the window.

It's not a bad thing for you, Wilfred, that you have the door-post and dinners and

friends. Carr grunted in his turn.

Seriously though, Jam? he said slowly.

You're a lucky fellow.

A very lucky fellow.

...