They all came around me, clinked their glasses with mine, shook hands with me, and drank my health, her health, the health of my mother-in-law, and any other toast that would serve as an excuse for emptying a glass.
"I say, will she cut rough on us chaps?" asked Percy in a plaintive voice as the hubbub subsided.
"Gentlemen," cried I, waving my hand, "my wife that is to be is an angel."
"Wish she would stay in heaven!" muttered Percy.
"What I mean by an angel is a perfect woman."
"Worse still," said the irrepressible Perce. (By the by, the wits had nicknamed him "Perce sans purse," because he was poor, you know, but he was a good fellow, quite.)
"Gentlemen, let me explain."
"Hear! hear!"
"I have been looking for a wife for the past year: I have thought much on the subject, for I think it an important one."
"Solomon!" said Perce out of his wine-glass.