“Of course, I can’t expect any one else to share the feeling,” Sir George has said to the bridegroom-elect, when he has innocently alluded to the marriage as an event in the near future; “but I cannot help thinking there is some indecency in feasting and merry-making when the eldest son of the house is scarcely cold in his grave!” Rupert is used to the sharp turnings and breakneck hills of his father’s utterances, but at this he cannot help looking a little blank. “I thought it was your wish, sir,” he answers. “If it is only because I wish it that you are marrying Lavinia, as I have already told you, I think the whole thing had better be off!” retorts Sir George, with another surprising caper of the temper; adding, in a voice of wounded protest that thinks it is temperate and patient, “I ask for a decent delay between an open grave and a carouse, and you fly off at once into a passion!” “Bid the Rectory light its bonfire--the bonfire it is getting ready against the Relief of Mafeking!” says Rupert, returning to the drawing-room, where Lavinia is sitting arduously working out a new patience--it is after dinner. “Tell Susan to deck her countenance in its brightest smiles. The wedding is indefinitely postponed!” “Is it?” she answers, looking up from her cards. “You do not say so!” Then, afraid that the colourless ejaculation is not quite up to the mark, she adds, in a tone where his too-sharp ear detects rather the wish to cheer him than any personal annoyance. “But it will be on again to-morrow. He is quite as keen about it as you--or I.” Once again that too officious ear tells him of the almost imperceptible hiatus that parts the pronouns. “Come and help me!” she adds, divining in him some little jarred sensitiveness; and, resting the tranquil friendliness of her eyes upon him, while her hand pulls him down to a seat beside her. “I can’t recollect whether this is red upon black, or if one follows suit.” That was weeks ago, and Lavinia’s prophecy is fulfilled. On this 23rd of April she has the knowledge that only five weeks of maidenhood remain to her. No sooner had Sir George paid his ill-tempered tribute to his dead son, and frightened and snubbed the survivor into a hurt and passive silence upon the subject nearest to both their hearts, than the increased irritability of his temper and the misery of his look tells his two _souffre-douleurs_ that he has repented of that delay in carrying out his passionately desired project, for which he has to thank himself. “One more such evening, and I shall think that there is a good deal to be said in praise of parricide!” says Rupert, in groaning relief after the strain of an evening of more than ordinary gibing insult on the one side, and hardly maintained self-restraint on the other. “Of course I know what it means. Poor old chap! He would give the world to climb down; and he would die sooner than do it!”