Harrington Dalbrook and his two sisters were in the drawing-room, each apparently absorbed in an instructive book, and yet all three had been talking for the greater part of the evening. It was a characteristic of their highly intellectual lives to nurse a volume of Herbert Spencer or a treatise upon the deeper mysteries of Buddha, while they discussed the conduct or morals of their neighbours—or their gowns and bonnets. “I thought you were never coming home, Theo,” said Janet. “You don’t mean to say you waited to see the bride and bridegroom?” “That is exactly what I do mean to say. I had to get old Sandown’s lease executed, and when I had finished my business I waited about to see them arrive. Do you think you could get me anything in the way of supper, Janie?” “Father went to bed ever so long ago,” replied Janet; “it’s dreadfully late.” “But I don’t suppose the cook has gone to bed, and perhaps she would condescend to cut me a sandwich or two,” answered Theodore, ringing the bell. His sisters were orderly young women, who objected to eating and drinking out of regulation hours. Janet looked round the room discontentedly, thinking that her brother would make crumbs. Young men, she had observed, are almost miracle workers in the way of crumbs. They can get more superfluous crumbs out of any given piece of bread than the entire piece would appear to contain, looked at by the casual eye. “I have found a passage in Spencer which most fully bears out _my_ view, Theodore,” said Sophia, severely, referring to an argument she had had with her brother the day before yesterday. “How did she look?” asked Janet, openly frivolous for the nonce. “Lovelier than I ever saw her look in her life,” answered Theodore. “At least I thought so.” He wondered, as he said those words, whether it had been his own despair at the thought of having irrevocably lost her which invested her familiar beauty with a new and mystic power. “Yes, she looked exquisitely lovely, and completely happy—an ideal bride.” “If her nose were a thought longer her face would be almost perfect,” said Janet. “How was she dressed?” “I can no more tell you than I could say how many petals there are in that Dijon rose yonder. She gave me an impression of cool soft colour. I think there was yellow in her hat—pale yellow, like a primrose.” “Men are such dolts about women’s dress,” retorted Janet, impatiently; “and yet they pretend to have taste and judgment, and to criticize everything we wear.” “I think you may rely upon us for knowing what we _don’t_ like,” said Theodore.