Colonel Dacre’s answer is not worth recording; but it was very expressive and impressive, for Lady Gwendolyn looked very red after it, and was not sorry to hide her confusion on his breast, though, perhaps, she was hardly woman enough yet to understand the mighty absorbing passion she had inspired. At ten o’clock precisely Colonel Dacre loosened his hold on her and said gently: “Now, my darling, you must go to bed. To-morrow will be a fatiguing day for you, and I shall want to see a few roses at starting. Oh! Gwen, when I think what to-morrow is to be, it seems to me that I must be dreaming. All my own--my very own, ‘to love and to cherish till death us do part.’ It is too much happiness! Give me one kiss--the first I have ever had from you, sweetest--to make it all seem real.” “No,” she answered shyly, and trembling; “I have always vowed that my husband should have my first kiss.” “Then I am to wait till to-morrow?” “Yes, Lawrence.” “Heaven bless you, my dear life!” he murmured; then kissed both the hands she extended to him, and hurried off. It seemed a dreadful parting to him, and yet it was only for twelve hours. Lady Gwendolyn could hardly realize that she was going to be married when she woke in the morning. But when her new maid appeared, her head just visible under an avalanche of white drapery, she began to think it was probable, and that she had better get up at once, and adorn herself to please her master’s eye. Her master! Proud as she was, naturally, the term did not humiliate her in connection with Lawrence. Let a woman be ever so haughty, she is ready to be the slave of the man she loves. Miss Ponsonby arrived in time to arrange the wreath and veil, and was so charmed with the effect that she said, with honest admiration: “It is a shame of you to have such a quiet wedding, Gwendolyn. I should like all London to see and approve.” “And I am so altered,” answered the bride, with a tender blush and smile, “that I don’t care for any one’s admiration now except Lawrence’s.” “You are civil, my dear, certainly,” laughed the Honorable Beatrice. “Oh! I didn’t mean you, of course, dear. I am glad of your approval; but, then, I always make sure of that.” “And of somebody else’s, too, I fancy.” Lady Gwendolyn put her arms round her friend’s neck with the impulsiveness that is always so attractive. “Beatrice,” she said, with tears of happiness trembling on her black lashes, “I love Lawrence with all my heart, and I would rather be his wife than queen of twenty kingdoms!” Then she glanced at the clock, and, seeing it wanted only a quarter to ten, began to mold on her gloves. The carriage drove up just as she had finished, and, taking her bouquet from the maid, she went down-stairs with the sun shining full on her as she went, and yet unable to find a flaw in her beauty or a shadow in her happy eyes.