I endeavoured to. At least I drew up a list of people who ought to meet the occasion, and I tried in more than one instance to drop a hint of what, as I felt, they ought to meet it with. But I am bound to admit that so far my success has been as nothing compared with hers. Hers has been prodigious. It is certain that we have a large collection of really valuable property about the house--the wedding presents to Mary Ann. She has a knack of getting people to do what she wishes and to give her what she wants, which is a little short of miraculous. A singular feature about the situation is that people are actually beginning to pity me--to sympathise with me for being about to marry Mary Ann. I notice that they are generally persons who have already tendered their offerings. The fact of having given Mary Ann a wedding present seems to fill them with a feeling of rancorous acidity which, to me, is inexplicable. My belief is that they have been induced to spend at least twice as much as they intended, and that they resent it. Such is the selfishness of human nature. But why, on that account, they should pity me, I altogether fail to understand. "We have all been giving Mary Ann presents, and I suppose you, Mr. Whiting, have been giving her something too." That was what Mrs. Macpherson said to me only the other day. I have given Mary Ann two or three trifles, and I said so. "And what," inquired Mrs. Macpherson, "has Mary Ann given you?" "Her love." Someone sniggered. I cannot pretend to explain why, except on the supposition that romance is dead; at least in that circle of society in which the Snellings move. But that is not the only society the world contains. As a matter of fact, Mary Ann has given me a pair of slippers, worked by her own hands. It is true that they are a trifle large for me, and that I shall never be able to keep them on my feet except when I am sitting still. But Mary Ann does not seem to think that that matters, so why should I? Her youngest sister, Clara Louisa, has quite gratuitously informed me that she has had them by her for some considerable time, and that, not to put too fine a point on it, they were originally designed for another individual altogether--a Mr. Pilbeam. But even supposing that what Clara Louisa says is true--of which I have no evidence--I have, surely, cause to congratulate myself on standing literally in Mr. Pilbeam's shoes, even if they are a little spacious.