t was hardly necessary. Discussion of who her late husband
was, or was not, had long since given way to a belief that he was a bad
lot, and that the less that was said about him the better. If any one
who was present at the wedding was still constructing theories about
his identity--whether he had divorced his wife, was divorced himself,
or was dead--certainly none of those theories connected themselves with
the present bridegroom. As for Sally, her only feeling, over and above
her ordinary curiosity about her father, was a sort of paradoxical
indignation that his intrusion into her mother's life should have
prevented her daughter figuring as a bridesmaid. It would have been so
jolly! But Sally was perfectly well aware that widows, strong-nerved
from experience, stand in no need of official help in getting their
"things" on, and acquiesced perforce in her position of a mere
unqualified daughter.

The Major--that is to say, Colonel Lund--stayed on after the wedding,
under a sort of imputation of guardianship necessary for Sally--an
imputation accepted by her in order that the old boy should not feel
lonesome, far more than for any advantage to herself. She wasn't sure
it did him any good though, after all, for the wedding-party (if it
could be called one, it was so small), having decided that its
afternoon had been completely broken into, gave itself up to
dissipation, and went to see "Charley's Aunt." The old gentleman did
not feel equal to this, but said if Sally told him all about it
afterwards it would be just as good, and insisted on her going. He said
he would be all right, and she kissed him and left him reading "Harry
Lorrequer," or pretending to.

The wedding-party seemed to have grown, thought the Major, in contact
with the theatrical world when, on its return, it filled the summer
night with sound, and made the one-eyed piebald cat who lived at The
Retreat foreclose an interview with a peevish friend acrimoniously.
Perhaps it was only because the laughter and the jests, the good-nights
mixed with echoes of "Charley's Aunt," and reminders of appointments
for the morrow, broke in so suddenly on a long seclusion that the Major
seemed to hear so many voices beyond his expectation.

The time had not hung heavy on his hands though--at least, no heavier
than time always hangs on hands that wore gloves with no fingers near
upon eighty years ago. The specific gravity of the hours varies less
and less with loneliness