She also possessed a house in town, but just as her deceased father’s spinster sister lived at the Hall in Devonshire, so did her dead mother’s brother Derek, with his collection of European moths and butterflies and other _Lepidoptera_, inhabit the fine old mansion in Hanover Square. Devonshire at Christmas marked the limit of dulness, but Hanover Square all the London season through beat the band for sheer ghastly boredom.... Not that there were any flies on little old London.... Paris and Ostend were ripping places, and you could put in a clinking good time at Monte Carlo.... Margot had tried New York and liked it, except for the place itself, which made you think of illustrations to weird Dunsany legends in which towering temples climb up unendingly upon each other into black star-speckled skies. But the Club and London, with Unlimited Bridge and Tango, constituted Margot’s idea of earthly happiness. She never had dreamed of marrying anybody—until Franky had arrived on the scene. Perhaps you can see Franky, with the wholesome tan of the Autumn Manoeuvres yet upon him. Twenty-seven, well-made and muscular, if with somewhat sloping shoulders and legs of the type that look better in Bedford cords and puttees, or leathers and hunting-tops, than in tweed knickers and woollen stockings, or Court knee-breeches and silks. Observe his well-shaped feet and slight strong hands with pointed fingers, like those of his ancestors, painted by Vandyke; his brown eyes—distinctly good if not glowing with the fire of intellect, his forehead too steep and narrow; his moustache of the regulation tooth-brush kind, adorning the upper-lip that will not shut down firmly over his white, rather prominent, front teeth. Cap the small rounded skull of him with bright brown hair, brushed and anointed to astonishing sleekness, dress him in the full uniform of a Second Lieutenant in the Bearskins Plain, and you have Franky on his wedding-day. Photographs of the happy couple published in the _Daily Wire_, the _Weekly Silhouette_, the _Lady’s Dictatorial_, and the _Photographic Smile_, hardly do the bridegroom justice. In that without the busby his features are fixed in a painful grin, while in the other there are no features at all. But Margot—Margot in a hobble-skirt of satin and chiffon, with a tulle turban-veil, starred with orange-flowers in pearls and diamonds, and a long serpent-tail train of silver brocade, hung from her shoulders by ropes of pearls, was "almost too swee," to quote Margot’s Club friends. Search had been made, amongst the said friends, many of whom were married, for a pair of five-year-old pages to carry the bride’s train; but there being, for some reason, a dearth of babies among Margot’s wedded intimates, the idea had to be given up.