circumstance, with portraits in the fashion papers, and every form of
advertisement which society has contrived. As it was, he desired to
slink through the inevitable. He was ashamed; he was confounded; and
only did not declare it. To the very eve of the wedding-day, his mind
ferreted elusive hopes. Had men and gods utterly forsaken him? In
solitude, he groaned and gnashed his teeth. And no deliverance came.

Reaction made him at times the fervent lover, and these interludes
supported Iris's courage. "Let it once be over!" she kept saying to
herself. She trusted in her love and in her womanhood.

"At all events," cried the bridegroom, "we needn't go through the
foolery of running away to hide ourselves. It's only waste of money."

But Iris pleaded for the honeymoon. People would think it so strange if
they went straight from church to their home at West Hampstead. And
would not a few autumn weeks of Devon be delightful? Again he yielded.

The vicar of Alverholme and his wife, when satisfied that Dyce's
betrothed was a respectable person, consented to be present at the
marriage. Not easily did Mrs. Lashmar digest her bitter disappointment,
which came so close upon that of Dyce's defeat at Hollingford; but she
was a practical woman, and, in the state of things at Alverholme, six
hundred a year seemed to her not altogether to be despised.

"My fear was," she remarked one day to her husband, "that Dyce would be
tempted to marry money. I respect him for the choice he has made; it
shows character."

The vicar just gave a glance of surprise, but said nothing. Every day
made him an older man in look and bearing. His head was turning white.
He had begun to mutter to himself as he walked about the parish. Not a
man in England who worried more about his own affairs and those of the
world.

In an obscure lodging, Dyce awaited the day of destiny. One evening he
went to dine at West Hampstead; though he was rather late, Iris had not
yet come home, and she had left no message to explain her absence. He
waited a quarter of an hour. When at length his betrothed came hurrying
into the room, she wore so strange a countenance that Dyce could not
but ask what had happened. Nothing, nothing--she declared. It was only
that she had been obliged to hurry so, and was out of breath,
and--and--. Whereupon she tottered to a chair, death-pale, all but
fainting.

"What the _devil_ is the matter with you?" cried Lashmar, whose
over-strong ne