red; but it was at the
memory of the sound of the word "Peter," as it had been blurted out for
his express annoyance by Miss Thoroughbung. "I wouldn't mind going up to
London with you." He shook his head, demanding still more time for
deliberation. Were he to accept his sister's offer he would be bound by
his acceptance. "It's the last drawing-room carpet I shall ever buy," he
said to himself, with true melancholy, as he walked back home across the
park.

Then there had been the other grand question of the journey, or not,
down to Cheltenham. In a good-natured way Harry had told him that the
wedding would be no wedding without his presence. That had moved him
considerably. It was very desirable that the wedding should be more than
a merely legal wedding. The world ought to be made aware that the heir
to Buston had been married in the presence of the Squire of Buston. But
the journey was a tremendous difficulty. If he could have gone from
Buston direct to Cheltenham it would have been comparatively easy. But
he must pass through London, and to do this must travel the whole way
between the Northern and Western railway-stations. And the trains would
not fit. He studied his Bradshaw for an entire morning and found that
they would not fit. "Where am I to spend the hour and a quarter?" he
asked his sister, mournfully. "And there would be four journeys, going
and coming,--four separate journeys!" And these would be irrespective of
numerous carriages and cabs. It was absolutely impossible that he should
be present in the flesh on that happy day at Cheltenham. He was left at
home for three months,--July, August, and September,--in which to buy the
furniture; which, however, was at last procured by Mr. Annesley.

The marriage, as far as the wedding was concerned, was not nearly as
good fun as that of Joe and Molly. There was no Mr. Crabtree there, and
no Miss Thoroughbung. And Mrs. Mountjoy, though she meant to do it all
as well as it could be done, was still joyous only with bated joy. Some
tinge of melancholy still clung to her. She had for so many years
thought of her nephew as the husband destined for her girl, that she
could not be as yet demonstrative in her appreciation of Harry Annesley.
"I have no doubt we shall come to be true friends, Mr. Annesley," she
had said to him.

"Don't call me Mr. Annesley."

"No, I won't, when you come back again and I am used to you. But at
present there--there is a something--"

"A re