It was not the first time he had asked me for a loan, which was always to be paid in a few days; but he never returned a shilling of the money he borrowed from me. I gave him the ten pounds, and inwardly resolved to have as little as possible to do with him after my marriage. I debated with myself whether I should communicate the news of my engagement to my stepmother and Louis, and acting upon the advice of Barbara--to whom I gave a truthful relation of my child-life--I wrote to them in affectionate terms. To me no answer was returned, but Barbara received a letter which she told me she tore up the moment she read it. "Your stepmother must be an awful woman," she said, "but we can do without her and her beautiful son." It was very considerate of Barbara, I thought, not to show me the letter, the tenor of which it was not difficult to guess, but I could not help looking grave. "No long faces, you dear boy," cried Barbara. "Do you think I believe a word she says? Do you think I care for any one but you? If she hadn't been the meanest creature living she would at least have sent a wedding present." The wedding was a very quiet one. A friend acted as my best man, and a few other of my friends were present. On Barbara's side there was only Maxwell, who gave his sister away. She looked beautiful, and was in high spirits. The ceremony over we hastened to Maxwell's house, where I and my friends expected to sit down to a wedding breakfast. To my surprise there was nothing on the table but the bridecake and a couple of bottles of wine. It was not a time to ask for an explanation of this inhospitable welcome to the wedding guests, but I was deeply mortified, and I saw that my friends were angry and offended. Maxwell made light of the matter; he filled the glasses, and in a florid speech proposed the health of bride and bridegroom, to which I responded very briefly. "There is nothing else to wait for, I suppose," said my best man, in a sarcastic tone. No one answered him, and with shrugs and halfhearted wishes for happiness he and the other guests took their departure, leaving Barbara and me and Maxwell alone. "Don't quarrel with him," Barbara whispered to me; "he has the most awful temper." For her sake I put the best face I could upon the slight that had been passed upon me. Maxwell appeared to be unconscious that he had behaved in any way offensively; he drank a great deal of wine, and urged Barbara to drink, but she refused. "A glass with me, darling," I said. "To our future." She raised the glass to her lips, and set it down, untasted, with a shudder. I had noticed at the meals we three had together that she drank nothing but water. "You do not like wine?" I said. "I detest it," she replied. "I'll drink your share whenever you call upon me," shouted Maxwell. "She is quite right, isn't she, John? Milk for women, wine for men."