und to the street in which he had
already lingered several times to-day, and where yesterday he had
spoken with Clara. The windows of the house he gazed at were dark.

CHAPTER XII

'IO SATURNALIA!'

So at length came Monday, the first Monday in August, a day gravely set
apart for the repose and recreation of multitudes who neither know how
to rest nor how to refresh themselves with pastime. To-day will the
slaves of industrialism don the _pileus_. It is high summertide. With
joy does the awaking publican look forth upon the blue-misty heavens,
and address his adorations to the Sun-god, inspirer of thirst. Throw
wide the doors of the temple of Alcohol! Behold, we come in our
thousands, jingling the coins that shall purchase us this one day of
tragical mirth. Before us is the dark and dreary autumn; it is a far
cry to the foggy joys of Christmas. Io Saturnalia!

For certain friends of ours this morning brought an event of
importance. At a church in Clerkenwell were joined together in holy
matrimony Robert Hewett and Penelope (otherwise Pennyloaf) Candy, the
former aged nineteen, the latter less than that by nearly three years.
John Hewett would have nothing to do with an alliance so disreputable;
Mrs. Hewett had in vain besought her stepson not to marry so
unworthily. Even as a young man of good birth has been known to enjoy a
subtle self-flattery in the thought that he graciously bestows his name
upon a maiden who, to all intents and purposes, may be said never to
have been born at all, so did Bob Hewett feel when he put a ring upon
the scrubby finger of Pennyloaf. Proudly conscious was Bob that he a
'married beneath him'--conscious also that Clem Peckover was gnawing
her lips in rage.

Mrs. Candy was still sober at the hour of the ceremony. Her husband,
not a bad fellow in his way, had long since returned to her, and as yet
had not done more than threaten a repetition of his assault. Both were
present at church. A week ago Bob had established himself in a room in
Shooter's Gardens, henceforth to be shared with him by his bride.
Probably he might have discovered a more inviting abode for the early
days of married life, but Bob had something of the artist's temperament
and could not trouble about practical details; for the present this
room would do as well as another. It was cheap, and he had need of all
the money he could save from everyday expenses. Pennyloaf would go en
with her shirt-making, of course, an