Now I really believe this toast would have ended in putting us all into a better temper, had well been let alone; for even as we drank, Conny smiled and looked much gratified. But judge my surprise, when, after an interval of not less than five minutes, I observed Mr. Curling, who had been pulling at his watchguard in a fashion that threatened to tear the waistcoat off his back, rise, and in rising knock his chair over, which however, nobody offered to pick up, that he might not be interrupted. In a very faint and difficult voice, he thanked us for our good wishes, which, he particularly desired his mother-in-law to believe, he should strive his utmost to deserve. He next informed us that he was never considered a good speaker, and that if he didn’t express all the gratitude he felt, it was not because he didn’t feel it, but because he hadn’t the words. Here I hoped he would sit down. But there are two notorious difficulties in public and unpremeditated speaking, of which every nervous man who has ever got upon his legs is but too keenly sensible: the first difficulty is to know how to begin, and the second is to know when to stop. On such an occasion, and in such company, it would probably have taxed the wit of a Disraeli not to have said something offensive. Mr. Curling wanted Mr. Disraeli’s wit, and the result therefore was, he, to the confusion of everybody, began to apologise for eloping with Conny; assuring us, and the servants who stood choking at the door, that he never would have been guilty of such a mistake had he not worshipped the ground his ker-ker-Conny trod on. This was too much for my aunt. It was bad enough that so delicate a matter should have been referred to at all: of its peculiar inopportuneness at that moment, one had only to glance at the giggling servants to understand. In a loud, angry voice, she begged him to cease, burst into tears, and rushed out of the room. Curling _did_ cease; and, forgetting in his nervousness that his chair was upset, sat down before any of us could cry out: the consequence of which was that he tumbled head over heels, pulling the table-cloth with him, and covering himself with his unique collection of glass and cutlery. There was instantly a scramble. My uncle, who thought Curling had fainted, shouted to the servants for brandy. Conny, weeping bitterly, fell on her knees and picked the broken glass away from the carpet near her husband’s head. Theresa turned pale, and clasped her hands; but I, suspecting by the young fellow lying still that he couldn’t get up, laid hold of his arm and pulled him on to his legs. Now then Conny’s affection displayed itself. She clung to her husband, kissed him, asked him if he was hurt and where, behaved herself altogether so pathetically that I felt myself a wretch for having laughed to see him fall. “Do let us go home!” she cried, turning to her papa. “We are _so_ much happier alone. Theodore never wanted to come, and mamma will break his heart.”