bridegroom were finishing one of the
distinguished Tortoni's most elaborate dinners. Tortoni had protested
that it was destructive of the elementary principles of art to order a
dinner for eight-thirty at seven o'clock. However, he had not completely
failed. The waiters had departed, and Camilla, in dazzling ivory-white,
was pouring out coffee. Hugo was cutting a cigar. They did not speak;
they felt. They were at the end of the brief honeymoon, and the day was
at an end. The last remnants of twilight had vanished, and through the
eastern windows of the dome the moon was rising. Neither the hour nor
the occasion made for talkativeness. Life lay before Hugo and Camilla.
Both were honestly convinced that they had not lived till that
hour--that hour whence dated the commencement of their regular united
existence. They looked at each other, satisfied, admiring, happy,
expecting glorious things from Fate.

There was a discreet alarm at the door. Simon came in. It would have
been a gross solecism to knock, but Simon performed the equivalent. He
paused, struck when he beheld Camilla, as well he might; for Camilla was
such a vision as is not often vouchsafed to the Simons of this world.
She was peerless that evening. And she smiled charmingly on him, and
asked after his health.

'Your coffee, dearest,' she murmured to Hugo.

It occurred to Simon that the dome would never be the same again. This
miraculous and amazing creature was going to be always there, to form
part of his daily life, to swish her wonderful skirts in and out of the
rooms, to--to--He did not know whether to be glad or sorry. He knew only
that he was perturbed, thrown off his balance, so much so that he forgot
to explain his invasion.

'Well, Simon,' said Hugo, 'had your dinner and been to the _Morning
Post_ office?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Alone?'

Simon blushed.

'No, sir.'

'Good.'

'Doctor Darcy is here, sir. Are you at home?'

Hugo had utterly forgotten about Doctor Darcy. He glanced at his wife
interrogatively, but Camilla looked at the moon through the window.

'Show Doctor Darcy in in five minutes,' said Hugo.

'Poor old Darcy!' exclaimed Camilla when they were alone. 'Does he
know?'

'Know what? That we are married? No. I wrote to him nearly six months
ago to tell him that you were safe and all that, and he acknowledged the
letter on a postcard. Afterwards I sent him that trifle of money that
you owed him, and he sent a stamped receipt.'

'