“I want to know if you will marry me next week.” “Next week? Good gracious! No,” said Augusta. “Why I have not got my things, and, for the matter of that, I am sure I don’t know where the money is coming from to pay for them with.” “Things!” said Eustace, with fine contempt. “You managed to live on Kerguelen Land without things, so I don’t see why you can’t get married without them—though, for the matter of that, I will get anything you want in six hours. I never did hear such bosh as women talk about ‘things.’ Listen, dear. For Heaven’s sake let’s get married and have a little quiet! I can assure you that if you don’t, your life won’t be worth having after this. You will be hunted like a wild thing, and interviewed, and painted, and worried to death; whereas, if you get married—well, it will be better for us in a quiet way, you know.” “Well, there is something in that,” said Augusta. “But supposing that there should be an appeal, and the decision should be reversed, what would happen then?” “Well, then we should have to work for our living—that’s all. I have got my billet, and you could write for the press until your five years’ agreement with Meeson and Co. has run out. I would put you in the way of that. I see lots of writing people at my shop.” “Well,” said Augusta, “I will speak to Bessie about it.” “Oh, of course, Lady Holmhurst will say no,” said Eustace, gloomily. “She will think about the ‘things’; and, besides, she won’t want to lose you before she is obliged.” “That is all that I can do for you, Sir,” said Augusta, with decision. “There—come—that’s enough! Good-night.” And breaking away from him, she made a pretty little curtsey and vanished. “Now, I wonder what she means to do,” meditated Eustace, as the butler brought him his hat. “I really should not wonder if she came round to it. But then, one never knows how a woman will take a thing. If she will, she will, etc., etc.” And now, it may strike the reader as very strange, but, as a matter of fact, ten days from the date of the above conversation, there was a small-and-early gathering at St. George’s, Hanover-square, close by. I say “small,” for the marriage had been kept quite secret, in order to prevent curiosity-mongers from marching down upon it in their thousands, as they would certainly have done had it been announced that the heroine of the great will case was going to be married. Therefore the party was very select. Augusta had no relations of her own; and so she had asked Dr. Probate, with whom she had struck up a great friendship, to come and give her away; and, though the old gentleman’s previous career had had more connection with the undoing of the nuptial tie than with its contraction, he could not find it in his heart to refuse.