my client should not be humored in the matter. As for
Marian and me, we did not much care whether we were married at Mohair
or the City of Mexico. Mrs. Cooke, I think, had a secret preference for
Germantown.

Mr. Cooke quite over-reached himself in that wedding. "The knot was
tied," as the papers expressed it, "under a huge bell of yellow roses."
The paper also named the figure which the flowers and the collation and
other things cost Mr. Cooke. A natural reticence forbids me to repeat
it. But, lest my client should think that I undervalue his kindness, I
will say that we had the grandest wedding ever seen in that part of the
world. McCann was there, and Mr. Cooke saw to it that he had a punchbowl
all to himself in which to drink our healths: Judge Short was there,
still followed by the conjugal eye: and Senator Trevor, who remained
over, in a new long black coat to kiss the bride. Mr. Cooke chartered
two cars to carry guests from the East, besides those who came as
ordinary citizens. Miss Trevor was of the party, and Farrar, of course,
was best man. Would that I had the flow of words possessed by the
reporter of the Chicago Sunday newspaper!

But there is one thing I must mention before Mrs. Crocker and I leave
for New York, in a shower of rice, on Mr. Cooke's own private car, and
that is my client's gift. In addition to the check he gave Marian,
he presented us with a huge, 'repousse' silver urn he had had made to
order, and he expressed a desire that the design upon it should remind
us of him forever and ever. I think it will. Mercury is duly set forth
in a gorgeous equipage, driving four horses around the world at a
furious pace; and the artist, by special instructions, had docked their
tails.

From New York, Mrs. Crocker and I went abroad. And it so chanced, in
December, that we were staying a few days at a country-place in Sussex,
and the subject of The Sybarites was broached at a dinner-party. The
book was then having its sale in England.

"Crocker," said our host, "do you happen to have met the author of that
book? He's an American."

I looked across the table at my wife, and we both laughed.

"I happen to know him intimately," I replied.

"Do you, now?" said the Englishman; "what a very entertaining chap he
is, is he not? I had him down in October, and, by Jove, we were laughing
the blessed time. He was telling us how he wrote his novels, and he
said, 'pon my soul he did, that he had a secretary or some