stereotyped antics. She _must_ be magnetised."

"They are not stale to her," I said.

"Mrs Harborough----" he began.

"Of course, a widow!--I forgot," I said. "But she seems so young, you
know."

"And putting aside the details," said my uncle, with a transient dash
of cheerfulness at my mistake; "I object to the publicity of the whole
thing. It's not nice. To bring the street arab into the affair, to
subject yourself to the impertinent congratulations and presents of
every aspirant to your intimacy, to be patted on the back in the local
newspapers as though you were going to do something clever. Confound
them! It's not their affair. And I'm too old to be a blushing
bridegroom. Then think, what am I to do, George, if that cad Hagshot
sends me a present?"

"It would be like him if he did," I said. "I fancy he will."

"I can't go and kick him," said my uncle.

"Declined with thanks," I suggested, "owing to pressure of other
matter."

"You are getting shoppy, George," said my uncle, in as near an approach
to a querulous tone as I have heard from him.

"You are getting married," I replied, with the complacency of one whose
troubles are over. "But it's a horrible nuisance, anyhow. Still, the
world grows wiser, and the burden is not quite so bad as it used to be.
A hundred years hence----"

"I'd be willing enough to wait," said my uncle; "but I'm not the only
party in this affair."

He was willing enough to wait, perhaps, but time was inexorable. Save
for one hurried interview, I did not see him again for a week, and then
it was before the altar. His garrulity had fallen from him like a
garment. He was preoccupied and a trifle bashful. He fumbled with the
ring. I felt almost as though he was my younger brother.

I stood by him to the end, and at last came the hour of parting. I
grasped his hand in silence: silently he mastered a becoming emotion.
And in silence he went from me unto the New Life.

A MISUNDERSTOOD ARTIST

The gentleman with the Jovian coiffure began to speak as the train
moved. "'Tis the utmost degradation of art," he said. He had
apparently fallen into conversation with his companion upon the
platform.

"I don't see it," said this companion, a prosperous-looking gentleman
with a gold watch-chain. "This art for art's sake--I don't believe in
it, I tell you. Art should have an aim. If it don't do you good, if
it ain't moral, I'd as soon not have it. What good is