Rokeby took his friend's arm, piloted him with patient firmness into
the sitting-room, and pulled out a chair.

Osborn ate and drank spasmodically. Between the spasms he hummed under
his breath:

"And--when--I--tell--them,
And I'm certainly going to tell them,
That I'm the man whose wife you're one day going to be,
They'll never believe me--"

Rokeby smoked several cigarettes.

"How long'll it take us to get to the church?" Osborn asked presently,
with his eye on the clock.

"Ten minutes, about. We'll walk."

"Desmond, I say, I wouldn't like to be late."

"I'll look after that. I've escorted a good many fellows to the
tumbril."

"Desmond, that nonsense of yours gets boring."

"All right! Sorry."

"Let's start," said Osborn.

So they started on their short walk. The pale gold sun of a splendid