Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having been able to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he had concluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than at the church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, young sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her professional capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something in the City. Altogether we must have numbered a score. Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The wedding presents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my card attached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and her mother lingered, examining it. “Real silver!” I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, “Must have paid a ten pound note for it.” “I hope you'll find it useful,” I said. The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered together at the opposite end of the room. “I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a gentleman,” said the Lady 'Ortensia. “Don't let's talk about it,” I answered. “We were both foolish.” “I don't want you to think it was merely that,” continued the Lady 'Ortensia. “I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you--at least, I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me time.” “Believe me, things are much better as they are,” I said. “I suppose so,” she answered. “I was a fool.” She glanced round; we still had the corner to ourselves. “I told a rare pack of lies,” she said; “I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. But I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you like.” I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. “My dear girl,” I said, “you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It was generous of you.” “You mean that?” she asked. “The truth,” I answered, “would shift all the shame on to me. It was I who broke my word, acted shabbily from beginning to end.” “I hadn't looked at it in that light,” she replied. “Very well, I'll hold my tongue.” My place at breakfast was to the left of the maternal Sellars, the Signora next to me, and the O'Kelly opposite. Uncle Gutton faced the bride and bridegroom. The disillusioned Joseph was hidden from me by flowers, so that his voice, raised from time to time, fell upon my ears, embellished with the mysterious significance of the unseen oracle. For the first quarter of an hour or so the meal proceeded almost in silence. The maternal Sellars when not engaged in whispered argument with the perspiring waiter, was furtively occupied in working sums upon the table-cloth by aid of a blunt pencil. The Signora, strangely unlike her usual self, was not in talkative mood. “It was so kind of them to invite me,” said the Signora, speaking low. “But I feel I ought not to have come. “Why not?” I asked