He thinks again, as he looks down the table, and
reciprocates the fat "ogle" of his bride, how he
has fought away, single-handed, through life,
without aid from any one, and is now ending so
respectably.

Now we must have some speeching. It is
rather a nuisance—perhaps a little old fashioned;
but where Lord Putnenham has kindly expressed
a wish to air his rhetoric, such considerations
must be waved. He does it very neatly, and
dryly—in chips, as it were. A little attempt
at humour, which, we may be sure, is not
allowed to miscarry. It was an "auspicious"
day, he said. His friend Carter, he was sure,
had made a judicious choice. He was sure to
make the lady he had selected happy, though his
friend Carter, he must say, had one fault—he
was one of the most unmusical men he had ever
met with. (This allusion produced extraordinary
merriment.) Yes, his friend Carter, he would do
him that justice, did not know a crotchet from a
quaver, though he sincerely hoped that in their
married life there would be an absence of
crotchets of a particular sort. (Roars and
applause.) Perhaps that was the reason that he
himself (Lord Putnenham) had never married
—he was too musical. (Amusement.) The man
who had not music in his soul, or would not
appreciate a posthumous quartet of the
immortal Beethoven's, he would say was fit for
treason and stratagem, and all that sort of thing.
Though he was quite sure that his friend Carter
would not indulge in any stratagems as regards
Mrs. Carter (great amusement), whose health he
would now propose, &c.

It was a happy moment, one to look back to,
when Major Carter rose, with half a glass of
champagne in his hand. His white crisp face
was a little flushed with other half glasses. He
was inclined to say, "God bless you all," many
times over. At least he thought he was affected.
The image present to his mind was that of labouring
through a hard life, and having now finally
come into a port of ease and quiet. This he
expressed. Mrs. Carter looking up at him with the
soft gelatine eyes. "I have fought my way,"
said Major Carter, with the half glass of
champagne in his hand, "through difficulties. I am
not ashamed of it. I have made friends for
myself, and I hope and believe they are not ashamed
of me. I have had troubles, and I am not
sorry to have had them. It has shown me the
value of friends of such friends as I now see
sitting round me. We are now going away,"
continued the major, "I and the lady whom I
am proud to call my wife. But we shall return
soon, I hope. We shall see and enjoy, I trust
the pleasant seductions of foreign countries.
We may stay a long time or a short time,
according as we find it; but believe me," and
the major's voice faltered a little, "whether
long or short, we shall both look forward to
the time when we shall return once more and
meet——"

Just at this moment, when Major Carter was
raising his champagne-glass again, Major Carter's
son, who had not been missed at the feast,
entered hastily, and hurried down the room,
behind the chairs, to where his father was standing.
This was an interruption. Every one
looked at him, and saw in the son's face a strange
and frightened expression. His father, thus
checked rudely, and yet seeing that he was
making for him, stopped, and looked angrily at
him. Every one felt that this was a most
awkward gauche creature, and that the major was to
be rather pitied.

In a second he was at his father's ear, and gave
him a short whisper. "What?" said Major
Carter, laying down his glass quickly. People
at the end even seemed to be straining their
ears to listen. The son repeated his agonised
whisper. The major's head shot round
suddenly to a door behind him. When it was seen
again, the champagne flush was gone, and there
was a twitching and spasm in the region about
his lips.

A mixed company is quick at reading signs.
"What the deuce is it?" said Lord Putnenham,
putting up his eye-glass. "The man is ill, or
has heard some bad news." Mrs. Wrigley,
heaving in a fright, said anxiously, "O, what
is it?"

The series of ghastly twitches that shot across
the major's face were recollected afterwards. So,
too, was the worn agonised face of his son. More
terrible, too, was it when the major, steadying his
face, as it were, by his hand, forced a smile, and
brought out a few words.

"A little matter—am sure you will excuse me
a moment—shall not be away long."

Again his head turned round to the door behind
him for there were two to the dining-room—
and by this one dinners entered. The white
bonnets—and the faces flushed with heat inside
—began to turn to other white bonnets. Such
do not like any "unpleasantness." "Is it an
illness?." it was asked; "or what is it?"

Major Carter had gone to that door behind
him, opened it, but had shut it hastily, and
seemed to put his foot against it. He hurried
down the room to the other, that twitch in his
face working all the time, and strange falterings
coming from him which seemed to say, "Back in
a moment—so sorry—a little business." In a
second he had shot through the folding-door at
the end.

"Dammy!" said Colonel Foley, who had
followed all his motions critically, addressing his
neighbour, " it must be bailiffs!" The son with
the miserable face followed him out.

Outside, in the street, the accustomed crowd
were waiting—the carriages for the flushed faces,
and the old-fashioned swinging chariot (the
coach-box removed, with postilions and posters)
to take away "the happy pair." The curious
were expectant. It was known that "she" was
an "old woman." Public sympathy was for
him.

The gentlemen attached to the carriages were