A lucky public holiday added a couple of really good houses to the week’s receipts, and the thirty sovereigns that arose therefrom he presented to Mornice as a wedding gift. With many thoughtful considerations he helped her purchase a trousseau and fixed up details with Ronald’s father. These two elderly gentlemen discussed marriage and contracts with the cordial gravity such important matters demand. The entire company was at the wedding, and very smart indeed was the appearance they presented. Eliphalet had given the ladies the Redfern gowns and added permission for them to be worn at the church. He himself was most spruce, a white gardenia in his buttonhole and his silk hat (it had been treated with stout the night before to flatten the nap) reflected the sunshine like a mirror. He gave away the bride with a nobility that kings might have envied, and at the reception which followed, the little speech he made was full of the happiest moments. He actually allowed a waiter to pour him out a glass of champagne, but although the glass was certainly emptied, there was a strong rumour running that an aspidistra close at hand received the wine. The wedding took place the day before the final performance, and the happy pair departed in a shower of confetti and a great draught from waved handkerchiefs, to reappear on the two succeeding nights at the theatre. “I want to say good-bye to you and Ronald to-morrow over a little dinner,” Eliphalet whispered to the bride. “It will be easier than in the theatre. It is going to be rather hard to lose you altogether.” She and Ronald were sailing for America, and were going straight to Liverpool after the curtain had fallen. Eliphalet made great and tender preparations for that parting feast, and laid the table lovingly with his own hands. Then at six o’clock he lit the fairy candles that twinkled among the fruit and smilax, and waited. And Mornice arrived, dressed in her prettiest trousseau frock—all by herself. “Where is Ronald?” he asked. “I told him to stop at home, Pummy. I sort of guessed you want me by my lone.” How many of these exquisitely-prepared little feasts are left untasted? We are in love—or have to say farewell—and we centre all our beforehand time setting out rare flowers, fair dishes and delicate appointments, to show how very greatly we care. And perhaps someone says, “How lovely of you to do all this to me,” or maybe breaks a white rose from its stem to keep in memory. Then a hand stretches across the table, and another’s takes it, and the little dishes are all neglected and the fairy candles burn low. After the long, long silence and unspoken words of love or parting, it all breaks up into a commonplace putting on of coats, whistling of cabs, or catching of trains.