Experienced observers would have understood it at a glimpse. From the work and fatigues of this world, people had gathered for a little enjoyment of what we call society. It is true that both the room and its occupants did not indicate that there had been much recreation. But, then, one can lay it down as an axiom that the people who work for pleasure are the hardest-working people in the world; and, as it is that for which society labors, this scene is but another proof that they get very much fatigued over their pursuit of happiness and enjoyment, considering that they hunt for it in packs, and entirely exclude the most delicious intoxicant known—usually called oxygen—from their list of supplies from the caterer. Certainly this particular group did look exhausted far beyond the speech-making point. But this, too, was a deception. These limp-looking individuals had only remained in this drawing-room for the sole purpose of “talking it over,” and Mr. Pierce had no walk-over before him. Mr. Pierce cleared his throat and remarked: “The development of marriage customs and ceremonies from primeval days is one of the most curious and—” “What a lovely wedding it has been!” said Dorothy, heaving a sigh of fatigue and pleasure combined. “Wasn’t it!” went up a chorus from the whole party, except Mr. Pierce, who looked eminently disgusted. “As I was remarking—” began Mr. Pierce again. “But the best part,” said Watts, who was lolling on one of the lounges, “was those ‘sixt’ ward presents. As Mr. Moriarty said; ‘Begobs, it’s hard it would be to find the equal av that tureen!’ He was right! Its equal for ugliness is inconceivable.” “Yet the poor beggars spent eight hundred dollars on it” sighed Lispenard, wearily. “Relative to the subject—” said Mr. Pierce. “And Leonore told me,” said a charmingly-dressed girl, “that she liked it better than any other present she had received.” “Oh, she was more enthusiastic,” laughed Watts, “over all the ‘sixt’ ward and political presents than she was over what we gave her. We weren’t in it at all with the Micks. She has come out as much a worshipper of hoi-polloi as Peter.” “I don’t believe she cares a particle for them,” said our old friend, the gentlemanly scoundrel; “but she worships them because they worship him.” “Well,” sighed Lispenard, “that’s the way things go in life. There’s that fellow gets worshipped by every one, from the Irish saloon-keeper up to Leonore. While look at me! I’m a clever, sweet-tempered, friendly sort of a chap, but nobody worships me. There isn’t any one who gives a second thought for yours truly. I seem good for nothing, except being best man to much luckier chaps. While look at Peter! He’s won the love of a lovely girl, who worships him to a degree simply inconceivable. I never saw such idealization.” “Then you haven’t been watching Peter,” said Mrs. D’Alloi, who, as a mother, had no intention of having it supposed that Leonore was not more loved than loving.