illy's wedding. Robin, with the look of a man who has
a hard day's work behind him, a full meal inside him, and a sound
night's sleep before him--and what three greater blessings could a man
ask for himself?--sat beside her, smiling largely and restfully on the
company around him.

Suddenly Dicky made an announcement.

"There is one more bottle," he said. "Come on, let's buzz it!"

He opened the champagne in a highly professional manner and filled up
our glasses. Gerald and Donkin declined, but helped themselves to fresh
jorums of cider.

Then there was a little pause, and we all felt that some one ought to
make a speech or propose a toast.

"Shall we drink some healths?" proposed Dilly.

There was a chorus of assent.

"We will each propose one," I said, "right round the table in turn.
Ladies first! Yours, Kitty? I suppose it will be Philly--eh?"

Kitty nodded.

"Ladies and gentlemen," I announced, "you are asked to drink to the
speedy recovery of Miss Phillis Inglethwaite. This toast is proposed by
her mother, and seconded by her father."

The toast was drunk with all sincerity, but soberly, as befitted.

"Now, Dilly," I said, when we were ready again.

Dilly whispered something to her husband, which was received by that
gentleman with a modest and deprecatory cough, coupled with an urgent
request that his wife would chuck it.

"He won't announce my toast for me," explained Dilly, turning to
us--"he's too shy, poor dear!--so I'll do it myself. Ladies and
gentlemen, the toast is--Dicky!"

Dicky's health was drunk with cheers and laughter, and Dilly completed
its subject's confusion by kissing him.

"Now, Dolly!" said every one.

"Not yet!" said Dolly. "Gerald and Moke are the next pair. Gerald must
act lady, and think of a toast."

Master Gerald, hastily bolting a solid mass of mince-pie--one could
almost follow the course of its descent--cheerfully complied.

"All right," he said; "I think I'll drink the health of old Moke
himself. He's not much to look at, but he's a good sort. I shan't kiss
him, though, Dilly. And," he added, "I think he had better drink mine
too. He looks thirsty. Come on, sonny--no heeltaps!"

He elaborately linked arms with the now comatose Donkin, and each
thereupon absorbed, without drawing breath, about a pint of cider
apiece. After that, with a passing admonition to his friend not to
burst, my brother-in-law returned to his repast.

So far, the toasts had all been of