of all ceremony. And yet--I would we were a little worthier,
Olivia!"

"You have written four merry comedies and you were the first gentleman
in England to wear a neckcloth of Flanders lace," she answered, and her
smile was sadder than weeping.

"And you were the first person of quality to eat cheese-cakes in Spring
Garden. There you have our epitaphs, if we in truth have earned an
epitaph who have not ever lived."

"No, we have only laughed--Laugh now, for the last time, and hearten
me, my handsome William! And yet could I but come to God," the woman
said, with a new voice, "and make it clear to Him just how it all fell
out, and beg for one more chance! How heartily I would pray then!"

"And I would cry Amen to all that prayer must of necessity contain," he
answered. "Oh!" said Wycherley, "just for applause and bodily comfort
and the envy of innumerable other fools we two have bartered a great
heritage! I think our corner of the world will lament us for as much
as a week; but I fear lest Heaven may not condescend to set apart the
needful time wherein to frame a suitable chastisement for such poor
imbeciles. Olivia, I have loved you all my life, and I have been
faithful neither to you nor to myself! I love you so that I am not
afraid even now, since you are here, and so entirely that I have
forgotten how to plead my cause convincingly. And I have had practice,
let me tell you. . . . !" Then he shook his head and smiled. "But
candor is not _a la mode_. See, now, to what outmoded and bucolic
frenzies nature brings even us at last."

She answered only, as she motioned seaward, "Look!"

And what Mr. Wycherley saw was a substantial boat rowed by four of Mr.
Minifie's attendants; and in the bow of the vessel sat that wounded
gentleman himself, regarding Wycherley and Lady Drogheda with some
disfavor; and beside the younger man was Mistress Araminta Vining.

It was a perturbed Minifie who broke the silence. "This is very
awkward," he said, "because Araminta and I are eloping. We mean to be
married this same night at Milanor. And deuce take it, Mr. Wycherley!
I can't leave you there to drown, any more than in the circumstances I
can ask you to make one of the party."

"Mr. Wycherley," said his companion, with far more asperity, "the
vanity and obduracy of a cruel father have forced me to the adoption of
this desperate measure. Toward yourself I entertain no ill-feeling,
nor indeed any sentiment at a