"Well, sir, and soon it is, as you say," replied the ancient
ex-housemaid, who had caught the remark; "but people do say as how Mr.
Harlowe, my late master, wished it so, and of course Mrs. Romer, she were
quite ready, so to speak, for the Captain had been a-courting her for
ever so long, as we who lived in the house could have told."

The vicomte was fumbling at his breast-coat pocket, his face was as
yellow as the rose in his button-hole.

"Where was the wedding to be? At Kew?"

"No, sir; at Saint Paul's church, in Wilton Crescent. Mrs. Romer would
have it so, because that's the place of worship she used to go to when
she lived here. You'd be in time to see them married now, sir, if you was
to look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it's not that yet;
my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there. I let
her go, because she'd never seen a grand wedding. I'd like to have gone
myself, but, in course, we couldn't both be out of the house----"

The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom.

"Drive to Saint Paul's, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go," he
called out to the cabman. "I might even now be in time; it would be a
_coup d'état_," he muttered.

Round the door of Saint Paul's church a crowd had gathered, waiting to
see the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across the
pavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; big
footmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot of