“We’ve been and done it, Ant’ny! Pouf!” This last was a peculiar laugh in which he indulged, while Mary cast down her eyes.
“Done it!—done what? What does he mean, Mary?”
Mary grew scarlet, and became puzzled over the button of one of her white kid gloves.
“Here, what do you mean, Bill?” I said.
“Done it. Pouf!” he exclaimed, with another laugh from behind his hand. “Done it—married.”
“Married?” I echoed.
“Yes. Pouf! Mrs Sergeant Revitts. White Sergeant. Pouf!”
“Oh, Mary,” I said, “and not to tell me!”
“It was all his doing, Master Antony,” pleaded Mary. “He would have me, and the more I wanted to go back to service, the more he made me get married. And now I hope he’s happy.”
There was no mistaking William Revitts’ happiness as he helped his wife on to the outside of the omnibus, behind the coachman—he sitting one side of Mary, and I next him; but try as I would, I could not feel as happy. I felt vexed and mortified; for, somehow, it seemed as if it was printed in large letters upon the backs of my companions—“Married this morning,” and this announcement seemed reflected upon me.