Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Forgive oversight. She is daughter of late Earl of Wexham. I told you what she is." Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "What is date of wedding? Must know at once." Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "I will ask her and let you know." Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew--(the next day): "Still undecided. Something to do with gowns." Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Nonsense. I cannot wait." Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Gave her your message. She says you'll have to." Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "Tell her I can't. I am a very old man." Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Thanks. That brought her round. May fifteenth in this city." Lord Fenlew to Lord Temple: "My blessings. Draw on me for any amount up to ten thousand pounds. Wedding present on the way." Lord Temple to Lord Fenlew: "Happiness complete." An ordinary telegram signed "Eric Temple" was delivered on board one of the huge American cruisers at Hampton Roads during this exchange of cablegrams. It was directed to Lieut. Samuel Pickering Aylesworth, who promptly replied: "Heartiest congratulations. Count on me for anything. Nothing could give me greater happiness than to stand up with you on the momentous occasion. It is great to know that you are not only still in the land of the living but that you are living in the land that I love best. My warmest felicitations to the future Lady Temple." Now, to go back to the morning on which the first cablegram was received from Lord Fenlew. At precisely ten minutes past nine o'clock we take up the thread of this narrative once more and find Thomas Trotter standing in the lower hall of Mrs. Millidew's home, awaiting the return of a parlour-maid who had gone to inform her mistress that the chauffeur was downstairs and wanted to see her when it was convenient. The chauffeur did not fail to observe the anxious, concerned look in the maid's eyes, nor the glance of sympathy she sent over her shoulder as she made the turn at the top of the stairs. Presently she came back. She looked positively distressed. "My goodness, Tommie," she said, "I'd hate to be you." He smiled, quite composedly. "Think I'd better beat it?" he inquired. "She's in an awful state," said the parlour-maid, twisting the hem of her apron. "I don't blame her," said Trotter coolly. "What was you up to?" asked she, with some severity. He thought for a second or two and then puzzled her vastly by replying: "Up to my ears." "Pickled?" "Permanently intoxicated," he assured her. "Well, all I got to say is you'll be sober when she gets through with you. I've been up against it myself, and I _know_. I've been on the point of quittin' half a dozen times." "A very sensible idea, Katie," said he, solemnly. She stiffened. "I guess you don't get me. I mean quittin' my job, Mr. Fresh." "I daresay I'll be quitting mine," said he and smiled so engagingly that Katie's rancour gave way at once to sympathy.