“Good gracious, Matthew dear,” remarked a voice at the door. “I hope you’re not going to do that to me after we’re married.” Mr. Priestley spun round. In the doorway, cool, smiling, astonishingly cheerful, stood Laura, already hatted, coated and gloved. He gaped at her. “Good-morning,” said Laura, approaching him. “Good-morning,” mumbled Mr. Priestley. Laura tilted her face a little more obviously. “Aren’t you going to kiss me? It’s the last time you’ll be supposed to kiss an unmarried girl, you know. After this there’ll be nothing but humdrum married kisses for you. I warn you, I shall be terribly wifely.” “God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, kissing her gingerly. Was this the same girl who had fled last night, weeping at the bare idea of accompanying him to a registry office this morning? “Oughtn’t we to be starting?” said Laura happily. “You were very late for breakfast, you know, considering it’s your wedding-morning. ‘Tra-la-la-a-a-a! for ’tis my we-hedding morning!’” She hummed a bar or two of _The Yeoman’s Wedding_ with a roguish smile. With some difficulty Mr. Priestley remembered that he was a villain. “I’ll get my hat on,” he said gruffly, and marched out. Laura went with him into the tiny hall, helped him on with his coat, brushed his hat, and gave him his gloves. “Of course,” she said, “by rights I ought to wait till we get back before doing this: it’s so _very_ wifely, isn’t it? By the way, dear, have you got the ring?” Mr. Priestley reminded himself that he was a blackguard. “Er—no,” he admitted. “I’m afraid I’d never thought of it.” Mr. Priestley may have been a blackguard, but he was a very inefficient one. With complete composure Laura slipped off one of her own and gave it to him. “We can use that, and get the real one later. It’s very irregular, but I do hope it won’t be unlucky. Still, you could hardly be expected to think of everything, poor dear, could you? Forgive my asking, but have you got the licence?” Mr. Priestley beamed. Then he remembered that he was a cad and stopped beaming. Cads never beam. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “I——” He felt in his breast-pocket. “God bless my soul, I’ve left it in the other suit!” A most inferior cad, Mr. Priestley. In due course Laura produced him at the registry office, complete with ring and licence. On the steps of it were Dora, George, Pat Doyle, Cynthia, Guy, Monica, and Alan. They raised a hearty cheer as the taxi drew up and its occupants emerged. “God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, and he had never said it with more feeling. Cynthia hurried forward and drew him aside. “I told the others, and we thought we’d come up just in case you did take my advice,” she whispered. “I’m delighted, Mr. Priestley! And don’t bother—nobody will say a word to Laura. Come along inside.”