"Then say the beginning of next," he returns, magnanimously, "and we will be married about Wednesday"--she utters a faint exclamation, and turns pale and red by turns, but he is steadfast--"and then we can have a gay time of it before we settle down." "Settle down," she says, with a little longing sigh. "How sweet it sounds--but next week!" "It is a cruel time to wait," he declares, drawing her nearer to him, "cruel--next week! It is months, years, ages----" "Hush!" she says, struggling gently away from him, "here is uncle." It is uncle, but he is innocent of wraps. "Going to stay out all night?" he asks, with fine irony. "Why, where are the wraps?" demands Leycester. "Eh? Oh, nonsense!" says the old man. "Do you want to commit suicide together by suffocation? It's as warm as an oven. Oh, for my little garden, and the cool room." "You shall have it in a week or two," says Leycester, with a smile of ineffable satisfaction. "We are going to take you to Paris, and then will come and stay with you----" "Oh, will you? and who asked you, Mr. Jackanapes?" "Why, you wouldn't refuse shelter to your niece's husband?" retorts Leycester, laughing. "Oh, that's it!" says the old man. "Allow me to wish you good-night. I'll leave you to your Midsummer madness--no, to your Autumn wisdom, for, upon my word, it's the most sensible word I've heard you utter for months past!" And he goes; but before he goes he lays his hand upon the sleek head and whispers: "That's a good girl! Now be happy." * * * * * They were married in Paris, very quietly, very happily. Lord Charles came over from Scotland, leaving the grouse and the salmon, to act as best man, and it was an open question which of the two men looked happiest--he or the bridegroom. Lord Charles had never heard of that forged note and his inadvertent share in the plot that had worked so much harm, and he never would hear of it; and furthermore he never quite understood how it was that Stella Etheridge and not Lady Lenore became Leycester's wife; but he was quite satisfied and quite assured that it was the best of all possible arrangements. "Leycester's the happiest man in the world, and he used to be the most wretched, and so there's an end of it," he declared, whenever he spoke of the match. "And," he would add, "the man who could have the moral cheek to be anything but absurdly happy with such an angel as Lady Stella wouldn't be fit to be anywhere out of a lunatic asylum." They were married, and Charlie went back to the grouse, and the painter went back to the cottage and Mrs. Penfold, leaving the young couple to have their gay time of it in the gayest city of the world. It was not particularly gay after all, but it was ecstatically joyous. They went to the theaters and concerts and enjoyed themselves like boy and girl, and Leycester found himself continually amazed at the youthfulness which remained in him.