And, finally--of ourselves? Under the seal of love’s confessional lies locked all that is worth knowing there; but we were married, if the term is essential to the propriety of an ending. I am not fond of it myself, I confess. It is the conventional expression for a conventionally vulgar festivity. But one has to endure it, and get away from it as quickly as possible, and commit to one’s fancy a picture of the thing as one would have liked it to be--something out in the woods, perhaps, with maids dancing, and garlanded heifers, and a gentle poem of wedlock, as binding as its natural symbol in the oak and eglantine. It is nothing but a question of terms, when the sweet and solemn oath is exchanged, after all. Well, the thing had to be, and my fairy, who should have come dressed like the green lace-wing, must drag after her a preposterous train of watered tabby, or moiré antique bombazine, or some such unnameable stuff at something terrifying the yard. Johnny, the best of men, was likewise my best man; and, in the enthusiasm of both parts, pursued us, flying, with a dropping fire of telegrams in cypher, which punctuated our honeymoon with merriment. And afterwards? Why, I started life dependent on my wife; and what was to say against it? A sense of honour? Pooh! Fine honour or kindness to wreck two lives on a sentiment of vanity! That curse of the golden balance! Go, fall into love, my friend--really into love, I mean--and marry you a wife, and learn what mutual confidence means. After the second day you will be beating your brains to remember which of you it was brought the money into the concern. But that is not to say you will be justified in leading an idle life.