han he had intended, because Kathleen was too much excited by
her own reckless behaviour to act up. While Michael waited for the
ceremony's conclusion, he began a poem called 'Renunciation.'
Unfortunately the marriage service was very much faster than his Muse,
and he never got farther than half the opening line, '_If I renounce_.'
Michael, however, ascribed his failure to a little girl who would
persist in bouncing a tennis ball near his seat in the gardens.

The wedding was only concluded just in time, because Mr. and Mrs.
McDonnell arrived on the following day and Michael's expeditions with
Kathleen were immediately forbidden. Possibly the equable Miss McDonnell
had been faintly alarmed for her sister's good name. At any rate she had
certainly been annoyed by her continuous neglect.

Michael, however, had a long interview with Trimble, and managed to warn
Kathleen that her husband was going to present himself after dinner.
Trimble and he had thought this was more likely to suit Mr. McDonnell's
digestion than an after-breakfast confession. Michael expressed himself
perfectly willing to take all the blame, and privately made up his mind
that if Mr. McDonnell tried to be 'too funny,' he would summon his
mother to 'polish him off' with the vision of her manifest superiority.

Somewhat to Michael's chagrin his share in the matter was overlooked by
Mr. McDonnell, and the oration he had prepared to quell the long-lipped
Irish father was never delivered. Whatever scenes of domestic strife
occurred, occurred without Michael's assistance, and he was not a little
dismayed to be told by Kathleen in the morning that all had passed off
well, but that in the circumstances her father had thought they had
better leave Bournemouth at once.

"You're going?" stammered Michael.

"Yes. We must be getting back. It's all been so sudden, and Walter's
coming into the business, and eh, I'm as happy as the day is long."
Michael watched them all depart, and after a few brave good-byes and
three flutters from Kathleen's handkerchief turned sadly back into the
large, unfriendly hotel. He knew the number of Kathleen's room, and in
an access of despair that was, however, not so overwhelming as to
preclude all self-consciousness, he wandered down the corridor and
peeped into the late haunt of his love. The floor was littered with
tissue paper, broken cardboard-boxes, empty toilet-bottles, and all the
disarray of departure. Michael caught his brea