r."

"I engaged a suite of private rooms in this hotel, and there's not a bit
of privacy."

"Very sorry, sir, indeed."

"And look here, waiter."

"Yes, sir."

"When you address me it is customary to say Sir Mark."

"Of course, Sir Mark; my mistake, Sir Mark. I'll mind in future."

"Has the carriage arrived?"

"Not yet, Sir Mark."

"Thank you; that will do. No; a moment. The wedding breakfast.
Everything is quite ready, I hope?"

"The head waiter has it in 'and, Sir Mark, and the table looks lovely."

"Thanks. Ahem! a trifle now. I shall remember you when I leave. I
spoke a little testily just this minute. A little out of order, waiter.
Touch of my old fever, caught in the East."

The waiter smiled and bowed as he pocketed a new five-shilling piece,
and looked with fresh interest at the fine looking, florid, elderly man
who kept pacing the room with a newspaper in his hand as he talked.

"Anything more I can do, Sir Mark, before I leave the room?"

"Hang it all, no, sir," cried the old officer, flashing out once more
irritably. "This is not a public dinner, and I have given you a vail."

"Of course, Sir Mark; and I didn't mean--"

"Then why did you use that confounded old stereotyped waiter's
expression? I wonder you did not hand me a toothpick."

"I beg your pardon, Sir Mark, I'm sure."

"Go and read `Peter Simple,' and take Chuck's, the boatswain's, words to
heart."

"Certainly, Sir Mark," and the waiter hurried to the door, leaving
Admiral Sir Mark Jerrold muttering, and in time to admit a charmingly
dressed, fair-haired bridesmaid in palest blue, and wearing a handsome
diamond locket at her throat, and a few bright pearls on her cheeks,
living pearls, just escaped from her pretty, red-rimmed eyes.

"`Trencher scraping--shilling seeking--napkin carrying.' Ah, Edie, my
darling--all ready?"

"Yes, uncle, dear; but, oh, you do look cross!"

She clung to his arm and put up her lips to kiss the old man, whose face
softened at her touch.

"No, no, my dear, not cross; only worried and irritable. Hang it, Edie,
my pet, it's a horrible wrench to lose her. No hope of that scoundrel
Stratton breaking his neck, or repenting, or anything, is there?"

"Oh, uncle dear, don't. Myra is so happy. She does love him so."

"And her poor old father's nobody now."

"You don't think so, uncle," said the girl, smiling through her tears,
as she rearranged the old officer's tie, and gave a dainty t