nt nearly all the last day together. Iris was in the extremity
of nervousness; she looked as if she had not slept for two or three
nights; often she hid her face against Dyce's shoulder, and shook as if
sobbing, but no tears followed.

"Do you love me?" she asked, again and again. "Do you really, really
love me?"

"But you know I do," Dyce answered, at length irritably. "How many
times must I tell you? It's all very well to be womanly, but don't be
womanish."

"You're not sorry you're going to marry me?"

"You're getting hysterical, and I can't stand that."

Hysterical she became as soon as Lashmar had left her. One of the two
servants, looking into the dressing-room before going to bed, saw her
lying, half on the floor, half against the sofa, in a lamentable state.
She wailed incoherent phrases.

"I can't help it--too late--I can't, _can't_ help it oh! oh!"

Unobserved, the domestic drew back, and went to gossip with her
fellow-servant of this strange incident.

The hours drove on. Lashmar found himself at the church, accompanied by
his father, his mother, his old friend the Home Office clerk. They
waited the bride's coming; she was five minutes late, ten minutes late;
but came at last. With her were two ladies, kinsfolk of hers. Had Iris
risen from a sick bed to go through this ceremony, she could not have
shown a more disconcerting visage. But she held herself up before the
altar. The book was opened; the words of fate were uttered; the golden
circlet slipped onto her trembling hand; and Mrs. Dyce Lashmar passed
forth upon her husband's arm to the carriage that awaited them.

A week went by. They were staying at Dawlish, and Lashmar, who had
quite come round to his wife's opinion on the subject of the honeymoon,
cared not how long these days of contented indolence lulled his
ambitious soul; at times he was even touched by the devotion which
repaid his sacrifice. A certain timidity which clung to Iris, a
tremulous solicitude which marked her behaviour to him, became her, he
thought, very well indeed. Constance Bride was right; he could not have
been thus at his ease with a woman capable of reading his thoughts, and
of criticising them. He talked at large of his prospects, which took a
hue from the halcyon sea and sky.

One morning they had strolled along the cliffs, and in a sunny hollow
they sat down to rest. Dyce took from his pocket a newspaper he had
bought on coming forth.

"Let us see what fools ar