that somebody shall hint that there is something peculiar; and which is shocked and retreats backwards into its boots when anything like a consequence forces itself on the apprehension.  Such men have their glory in their own estimation.  We remember how Falstaff flouted the pride of his companion whose victory in the fields of love had been but little glorious.  But there are victories going now-a-days so infinitely less glorious, that Falstaff’s page was a Lothario, a very Don Juan, in comparison with the heroes whose praises are too often sung by their own lips.  There is this recompense:  that their defeats are always sung by lips louder than their own.  Mr Gibson, when he found that he was to escape apparently unscathed, that people standing respectably before the world absolutely dared to whisper words to him of congratulation on this third attempt at marriage within little more than a year, took pride to himself, and bethought himself that he was a gay deceiver.  He believed that he had selected his wife and that he had done so in circumstances of peculiar difficulty!  Poor Mr Gibson—­we hardly know whether most to pity him, or the unfortunate, poor woman who ultimately became Mrs Gibson.

‘And so Bella French is to be the fortunate woman after all,’ said Miss Stanbury to her niece.

‘It does seem to me to be so odd,’ said Dorothy.  ’I wonder how he looked when he proposed it.’

‘Like a fool, as he always does.’

Dorothy refrained from remarking that Miss Stanbury had not always thought that Mr Gibson looked like a fool, but the idea occurred to her mind.  ‘I hope they will be happy at last,’ she said.

’Pshaw!  Such people can’t be happy, and can’t be unhappy.  I don’t suppose it much matters which he marries, or whether he marries them both, or neither.  They are to be married by banns, they say at Heavitree.’

‘I don’t see anything bad in that.’

‘Only Camilla might step out and forbid them,’ said Aunt Stanbury.  ’I almost wish she would.’

‘She has gone away, aunt, to an uncle who lives at Gloucester.’

’It was well to get her out of the way, no doubt.  They’ll be married before you now, Dolly.’

‘That won’t break my heart, aunt.’

’I don’t suppose there’ll be much of a wedding.  They haven’t anybody belonging to them, except that uncle at Gloucester.’  Then there was a pause.  ’I think it is a nice thing for friends to collect together at a wedding,’ continued Aunt Stanbury.

‘I think it is,’ said Dorothy, in the mildest, softest voice.

’I suppose we must make room for that black sheep of a brother of yours, Dolly or else you won’t be contented.’

‘Dear, dear, dearest aunt!’ said Dorothy, falling down on her knees at her aunt’s feet.

CHAPTER LXXXIV

SELF-SACRIFICE