'I said so conditionally.'

'Yes, and that was that I must not smile at anybody, and suppose I cannot help it, it being my nature to do so?'

Miss Seaton looks up at him and says, 'I sha'n't marry you, that's all'

'All,' repeats he, 'it's a good deal, I don't know what you could call more.'

Lippa smiles. 'Oh you silly boy,' she says, 'you look as grave as a judge. Mabel, if she happened to come in, would think we had been quarrelling already.'

'Then you intend doing so later on?' queries he.

'Certainly; we should be very dull if we didn't, besides there will be always the making up.'

'Oh what a child you are,' says he laughing, 'but do you really love me?'

'Of course,' replies she gaily, and then seeing how earnest he is she goes up to him and slipping her arms round his neck she says, 'there is one thing you have not done.'

'What is it?' asks he.

'You've never settled where we are to live.'

'And more important still, you will not settle when we are to be married.'

'Not just yet; you see I shall have to get some clothes, and they couldn't be ready before Lent, and it would be unlucky to be married then.'

'That will put it off for at least three months,' objects he.

'Yes--don't you think the end of June would do nicely?'

'It will have to I suppose, but it is a long time off.'

'Never mind, it will soon be gone,' says Miss Seaton sweetly.

'June be it then,' replies Jimmy. 'The leafy month of June.'

CHAPTER XI

'Thee will I love and reverence, evermore.'

--AUBREY DE VERE.

'There, Mab, I really can't write any more,' and throwing down her pen, regardless that it is full of ink, and that it alights on a photograph of Teddy, thereby giving him a black eye, Miss Seaton rises from the writing-table and flings herself into an armchair.

'Well, dear,' says Mabel, 'I said I would do them for you, after you are gone to-morrow, look at these little china figures, I don't believe you've glanced at them, they came from old Mrs Boothly and I fancy they are real Sevres--?'

'At it still,' interrupts George, poking his head in at the door, 'what it is to be on the eve of a wedding; I suppose you'll want a detective, and, oh, by the bye where are we going to dine?'

'In your room, I thought,' replies his wife, 'you see you can go to the club, and we shall not want much.'

'Fasting before a festival, I suppose,' says he; 'or perhaps you are afraid you will not be able to get into that new gown of yours.'

'How do you know anything about my new gown,' asks Mabel.

George laughs, 'I happened to see it put out for inspection in your room.'

'My room, what were you doing there?' begins Mabel, but he has departed.

'What can he have been doing?' she says.

'Go and see,' suggests Lippa, and Mabel filled with curiosity, hastens upstairs, but returns again in a minute.

'Look, what the dear thing has given me,' she cries, holding up a little blue velvet case, 'I must go and thank him,' and down she goes to the smoking-room, 'George, you dear old boy,' she says, hugging him round the neck, 'isn't it lovely,' she goes on, turning to Philippa who has followed her.

'It is indeed,' says she, carefully examining the moonstone set in diamonds. 'Did you choose it yourself, George?'

'Didn't give me credit for so much taste, eh?'

'No, I don't think I did,' replies Lippa, quietly slipping out of the room.

She wants to be alone, to think a little, it all seems so strange and lovely; this time to-morrow she will be Mrs Dalrymple--Mrs Dalrymple!

how funny it sounds--and Jimmy will be all her own, and they will go away together;--and she sinks into a dream of delight, seeing the future only as a golden mist through which she and her husband will pa.s.s side by side. And she suddenly falls upon her knees, and buries her golden head in her hands, and breathes forth an earnest prayer of heartfelt grat.i.tude to the great G.o.d who orders all things.

'The Divinity that shapes our ends, Rough hew them as we will.'

The next morning, her wedding day, dawns at length; the first thing she hears are some sparrows chirping outside, and anxious to see if it is fine, she goes to the window and draws up the blind, letting in a whole flood of crimson light.

It is one of those lovely days in London when there is just a little breath of wind stirring among the trees that prevents it from being sultry, and everyone seems to expand to the warmth and look happy. It is still quite early, two or three costermongers' carts are being wheeled along by their owners, fresh from Covent Garden; a lark belonging to the house opposite is singing merrily despite its small cage, and Lippa smiles as she recalls the old saying, 'Blessed is the bride whom the sun shines on.'

As sleep seems impossible and rather loud voices are heard from overhead, she throws a loose wrapper round her and goes up to the nurseries. Teddy is in his bath and no power on earth can persuade him to get out, in vain Marie gesticulates and calls him '_Un bien mechant gamin_,' Teddy knows he has the best of it, as whenever she comes near he throws water at her.

'Oh, Teddy! Teddy!' exclaims Philippa, opening the door, 'do be a good boy, or else you know, you could not be my page.'

Teddy, surprised at his aunt's sudden appearance, ceases to splash about and regards her gravely.

'I shall be your page if I'm good then,' he says.

'Certainly,' replies Philippa, 'get out of the bath now and after your breakfast you shall come to my room.'

Teddy looks longingly at the water and then at her, finally with a deep sigh he gets out of the bath and submits to being rubbed dry by Marie.

The morning wears on and five minutes after the appointed time Lippa calm and very lovely in her bridal attire, walks up the aisle of St P---- leaning on her brother's arm, and there before the altar takes James Dalrymple to be her husband, for better, for worse, till death them do part.

Into further details there is no need to go; weddings are all alike, you will say, except, of course, when you happen to be one of the chief parties concerned. There was of course, the orthodox best man, bridesmaids, and spectators, the lengthy signing of the register and last but not least Mendelssohn's wedding march. I wonder how the world could have got on without it!