Belinda Ann had added to her attire a huge lace collar and a silver chain, from which hung a locket to match about the size of a small warming-pan, and the party was completed by the bride’s mother, also dressed in an old gown of Miss H.’s. Now Miss H. being tall and slim, while Mrs. Hogg was of the same generous proportions as her daughter, the dress proved somewhat too scanty, so she had taken some of the material from the waist to eke out the bodice, and to hide this theft had donned a black velvet apron. It looked a little odd, perhaps, but on the whole was pronounced very fair, and we set off for the church. Not on foot, although the edifice was just round the corner. That would, indeed, have been a serious breach of etiquette on such an occasion. No! Two four-wheeled cabs had been chartered for the drive, and into these we packed, the bride, her mother and father (who turned up at the last minute in a fearful state of heat and nervousness) going in the first, and Belinda Ann, Miss H., and I taking the second. An enthusiastic crowd was hanging round the porch cheering wildly when we alighted, and at first I thought that Miss Hogg must be the most popular girl in the East End; but I was soon undeceived. She was not the only expectant bride of the occasion, for Bank Holiday is a favourite East End wedding-day, for obvious reasons. The crowd inside was so great, although perfectly orderly and reverent, that I could see little or nothing of the actual ceremony, and was rather glad than not when, all formalities having been complied with, our party disentangled itself from the general _mêlée_, and we drove back in the same order as we had come, with the addition of the bridegroom, of course. In our absence the table had been elegantly laid with wine-glasses of every shape, colour, and size, borrowed right and left for the occasion, each with half a sheet of clean notepaper stuck in it. I puzzled over these for some time, till I came to the conclusion that possibly this was in imitation of the serviettes placed in wine-glasses at restaurants. As each guest appeared, he or she was hospitably pressed to say what he or she would take (“Give it a nyme!” was the general form of invitation), and he or she usually seemed quite prepared for the question and quite ready with an answer, for without any false delicacy they promptly replied, “Drop o’ port!” This was immediately handed them, and there they sat in a row, never opening their mouths except to empty into them the aforesaid “drop o’ port.” I was sorely troubled as to what to do with mine, which I would have gladly refused only that I was warned that it was considered as great an insult as to refuse in the real East to drink the cup of black coffee offered at the threshold; so there I sat with the rest, occasionally raising it to my lips, till an opportunity offered to stick it behind a flower-pot, where it may remain to this day for all I know.