Proudly, with a self-satisfied air--the air of one who has fought and conquered and is now reaping the spoils of victory--Beau Bufton went through with his marriage, that smile, which Granger thought so hateful, being on his lips while he uttered his responses clearly and audibly to all--as who would not do who was wedding a hundred thousand guineas? His bride also seemed to take courage as the end drew near, and ceased to shiver and shake as she had done at the commencement. She looked, too, more than once with a self-satisfied glance at the three boon companions who were by the door, as well as at Mrs. Pottle, and--once!--she looked at Granger. "Sign the book!" exclaimed Symson now, as he closed his own, from which he had been reading in a gabbling, hurried manner. "Sign the book. Isaac, pass over the register to those whom the Lord hath joined together. There is no further fee, yet generous bridegrooms may still offer the minister a gift if they are so disposed. The clerk, too, would accept of something if it were tendered." But Beau Bufton was deaf to these suggestions. He had paid his five guineas yesterday out of the remnants of the small stock of money left to him; he was not going to squander any of that new fortune which he had now secured. Wherefore, having signed his own name, and indicated with his finger the spot at which his wife should also sign hers, he turned a deaf ear to the reverend gentleman's suggestions, while, he turned on Granger a look of triumph--the proud glance of a successful man. Then, as he did so, and as still the newly made wife bent over the greasy register, he heard a voice: it was that of the friend whose absence he had noticed regretfully as he entered the chapel; the voice of Lord John Dallas, saying: "Ariadne Thorne! Ariadne Thorne! That Ariadne Thorne! My God!" While at the same time Bufton saw that the new-comer--the man who had but just arrived upon the scene--was making his way to where he and his wife stood. He saw, too, a strange look upon his face. "Mrs. Algernon Bufton now," he said, regarding the young man with surprise; "Ariadne Thorne a quarter of an hour ago." "Ariadne Thorne! never!" Lord John exclaimed, and, to the Beau's horror, he saw a glance of recognition pass between him and the woman at his side, who, to his further astonishment, now trembled no more, but, instead, stood erect and with a look of defiance on her face. "Never Ariadne Thorne. I knew it. Knew it. She loves Geoffrey Barry too well! Ariadne Thorne," he repeated. "Nay! Anne Tremlett, the actress--the singer at booths--the stroller. God! what have you done?" "Tremlett! Ah!" and Bufton gasped. "Tremlett."