I was in love myself three times," explained Uncle Gutton, "before
I married the old woman."

Aunt Gutton sighed and said she was afraid gentlemen didn't feel these
things as much as they ought to.

"They've got their living to earn," retorted Uncle Gutton.

I agreed with Uncle Gutton that life could not be wasted in vain regret.

"As for the rest," admitted Uncle Gutton, handsomely, "I was wrong.
You've turned out better than I expected you would."

I thanked him for his improved opinion, and as we entered the restaurant
we shook hands.

Minikin we found there waiting for us. He explained that having been
able to obtain only limited leave of absence from business, he had
concluded the time would be better employed at the restaurant than at
the church. Others were there also with whom I was unacquainted, young
sparks, admirers, I presume, of the Lady 'Ortensia in her professional
capacity, fellow-clerks of Mr. Clapper, who was something in the City.
Altogether we must have numbered a score.

Breakfast was laid in a large room on the first floor. The wedding
presents stood displayed upon a side-table. My own, with my card
attached, had not been seen by Mrs. Clapper till that moment. She and
her mother lingered, examining it.

"Real silver!" I heard the maternal Sellars whisper, "Must have paid a
ten pound note for it."

"I hope you'll find it useful," I said.

The maternal Sellars, drifting away, joined the others gathered together
at the opposite end of the room.

"I suppose you think I set my cap at you merely because you were a
gentleman," said the Lady 'Ortensia.

"Don't let's talk about it," I answered. "We were both foolish."

"I don't want you to think it was merely that," continued the Lady
'Ortensia. "I did like you. And I wouldn't have disgraced you--at least,
I'd have tried not to. We women are quick to learn. You never gave me
time."

"Believe me, things are much better as they are," I said.

"I suppose so," she answered. "I was a fool." She glanced round; we
still had the corner to ourselves. "I told a rare pack of lies," she
said; "I didn't seem able to help it; I was feeling sore all over. But
I have always been ashamed of myself. I'll tell them the truth, if you
like."

I thought I saw a way of making her mind easy. "My dear girl," I said,
"you have taken the blame upon yourself, and let me go scot-free. It was
generous of you."

"You mean that?" she asked.

"The truth," I answered