“I trust so; but nevertheless,—­I don’t know whether I make myself understood?”

“Quite so, Lady de Courcy.  If Alexandrina were going to marry the eldest son of a marquis, you would have a longer procession to church than will be necessary when she marries me.”

“You put it in such an odd way, Adolphus.”

“It’s all right so long as we understand each other.  I can assure you I don’t want any procession at all.  I should be quite contented to go down with Alexandrina, arm in arm, like Darby and Joan, and let the clerk give her away.”

We may say that he would have been much better contented could he have been allowed to go down the street without any encumbrance on his arm.  But there was no possibility now for such deliverance as that.

Both Lady Amelia and Mr Gazebee had long since discovered the bitterness of his heart and the fact of his repentance, and Gazebee had ventured to suggest to his wife that his noble sister-in-law was preparing for herself a life of misery.

“He’ll become quiet and happy when he’s used to it,” Lady Amelia had replied, thinking, perhaps, of her own experiences.

“I don’t know, my dear; he’s not a quiet man.  There’s something in his eye which tells me that he could be very hard to a woman.”

“It has gone too far now for any change,” Lady Amelia had answered.

“Well; perhaps it has.”

“And I know my sister so well; she would not hear of it.  I really think they will do very well when they become used to each other.”

Mr Gazebee, who also had had his own experiences, hardly dared to hope so much.  His home had been satisfactory to him, because he had been a calculating man, and having made his calculation correctly was willing to take the net result.  He had done so all his life with success.  In his house his wife was paramount,—­as he very well knew.  But no effort on his wife’s part, had she wished to make such effort, could have forced him to spend more than two-thirds of his income.  Of this she also was aware, and had trimmed her sails accordingly, likening herself to him in this respect.  But of such wisdom, and such trimmings, and such adaptability, what likelihood was there with Mr Crosbie and Lady Alexandrina?

“At any rate, it is too late now,” said Lady Amelia, thus concluding the conversation.

But nevertheless, when the last moment came, there was some little attempt at glory.  Who does not know the way in which a lately married couple’s little dinner-party stretches itself out from the pure simplicity of a fried sole and a leg of mutton to the attempt at clear soup, the unfortunately cold dish of round balls which is handed about after the sole, and the brightly red jelly, and beautifully pink cream, which are ordered, in the last agony of ambition, from the next pastry-cook’s shop?

“We cannot give a dinner, my dear, with only cook and Sarah.”