That was on Tuesday. Now it was Saturday. Rosalind had still to get used
to the fact that she was Mrs. Ernest Thorburn. Perhaps she never would
get used to the fact that she was Mrs. Ernest Anybody, she thought, as
she sat in the bow window of the hotel looking over the lake to the
mountains, and waited for her husband to come down to breakfast. Ernest
was a difficult name to get used to. It was not the name she would have
chosen. She would have preferred Timothy
Buy Newport 100, Antony
Marlboro Red, or Peter. He did not
look like Ernest either. The name suggested the Albert Memorial,
mahogany sideboards, steel engravings of the Prince Consort with his
family--her mother-in-law's dining-room in Porchester Terrace in short.