es had effected among the working classes; how they had allowed
the poor--for instance, the person who has been known for years in
the neighbourhood as Mrs. Thompson, to legalize her cohabitation
without scandal.

But Frank thought only of his wife, when he should clasp her hand,
saying, "Dearest wife!" He had brought his dramatic and musical
critics with him. The dramatic critic--a genial soul, well known to
the shop-girls in Oxford Street, without social prejudices--was deep
in conversation with the father and brother of the bride; the musical
critic, a mild-faced man, adjusted his spectacles, and awaking from
his dream reminded them of an afternoon concert that began unusually
early, and where his presence was indispensable. When the
declarations were over, Frank asked when he should put the ring on.

"Some like to use the ring, some don't; it isn't necessary; all the
best people of course do," said the Assistant-Registrar, who had not
yawned once since he had heard that Frank's uncle was Lord Mount
Rorke.

"I am much obliged to you for the information; but I should like to
have my question answered--When am I to put on the ring?"

The dramatic critic tittered, and Frank authoritatively expostulated.
But the Registrar interposed, saying--

"It is usual to put the ring on when the bride has answered to the
declarations."

"Now all of ye can kiss the bride," exclaimed the clerk from Cashel.

Frank was indignant; the Registrar explained that the kissing of the
bride was an old custom still retained among the lower classes, but
Frank was not to be mollified, and the unhappy clerk was ordered to
leave the room.

The wedding party drove to the Temple, where champagne was awaiting
them; and when health and happiness had been drunk the critics left,
and the party became a family one.

Mike was in his bedroom; he was too indolent to move out of Escott's
rooms, and by avoiding him he hoped to avert expulsion and angry
altercations. The night he spent in gambling, the evening in dining;
and some hours of each afternoon were devoted to the composition of
his trilogy. Now he lay in his arm-chair smoking cigarettes, drinking
lemonade, and thinking. He was especially attracted by the picture he
hoped to paint in the first play of John and Jesus; and from time to
time his mind filled with a picture of Herod's daughter. Closing his
eyes slightly he saw her breasts, scarce hidden beneath jewels, and
precious scarves floate