So George Benthall and Gertrude Creswell were married at St. James's Church in Piccadilly, by the Reverend John Bontein, a High-Church rector of a Worcestershire parish, and an old college chum of the bridegroom's. A very quiet wedding, with Maude as the sole bridesmaid, and Joyce as best man, and Lady Caroline, and, oddly enough, Lord Hetherington, who had just come up to town from Westhope, and, calling at his sister's, had learned what was going to take place, and thought he should like to see it, don't you know? Had never been at any wedding except his own, and didn't recollect much about that, except that--curious thing, never should forget it--when he went into the vestry to sign his name, or something of that kind, saw surplice hanging up behind the door--thought it was ghost, or something of that kind--give you his word! So the little earl arrived the next morning at eleven at the church, and took his place in a pew near the altar, and propped his ear up with his hand to listen to the marriage service, at which he seemed to be much affected. When the ceremony was over, he joined the party in the vestry, insisted on bestowing a formal salute upon the bride--Lady Hetherington, he knew, was safely moored at Westhope--and, as some recompense for the infliction, he clasped on Gertrude's arm a very handsome bracelet, as his bridal gift. No bells, no bishop, no fashionable journal's chronicler, minutely noting down all that took place, and chronicling the names of "distinguished persons present." Pew-opener and beadle hearing "my lord" and "her ladyship" mentioned, seeing broughams, and cockades, and other signs of aristocracy with which they are familiar, are unable to reconcile the presence of these with absence of outward and visible signs in which great ones of this earth delight; and conclude either that it is a runaway match winked at by a portion only of the family, or some such low affair as the union of the tutor with the governess, kindly patronised by their employers. A happy wedding, though--happier far than most which are made up in that same temple--love-match founded on long knowledge of each other, not hurried, not forced, not mercenary; no question of love in a cottage either, and the flight of Amor through the window concurrently with the entrance of the wicked man of the drama--one Turpis Egestas--through the door.