The nuptials of Mr. Desmond Waddilove and Miss Esther Priddie, whose parents are prominently implicated in the milk trade, were marked by several interesting and appropriate spectacular incidents. A specially attractive feature was the progress of the wedding procession between a double row of milk-cans. Later on the bride and bridegroom left for Cowes (I.W.) amid a volley of pats of butter deftly hurled by the officials of the Sursum Corda Dairy Company, Ltd.
Last Saturday the wedding of Mr. Nestor Young and Miss Leonora Dargle was celebrated with great éclat at St. Mark's, Datchet. Out of respect for the calling of the bride's father all the wedding party proceeded to the sacred edifice in bath-chairs, which imparted to the ceremony an air of solemnity too often neglected at up-to-date weddings. The bridegroom's father being a leading pork-butcher, imitation sausages formed part of the trimmings of the bride's going-away dress.
Mr. Donald MacLurkin, the golf professional of the Culbin Sands Golf Club, was married last Friday at Lossiemouth to Miss Janet Sutor, of Cromarty. A charming effect was produced by a guard of honour, composed of members of the golf club, holding aloft crossed brassies, beneath which the happy pair passed into the church, while the caddies clashed niblicks and other iron clubs. The bride wore a cream silk bogey skirt, slightly caught up so as to show the pink dots of the stymied underskirt, and a simple Dunlop V corsage. A dainty little pot-bunker hat completed a costume as novel as it was natty.
THE ROYALISTS.
Eight of us travel up to town every morning by the Great Suburban Railway. I have no politics. Gibbs is a Unionist Free Trader. Three of the others are Radicals and three Unionists. On one side of the compartment are ranged The Daily Mail, The Daily Express and The Daily Telegraph. Boldly confronting them are two Daily Chronicles and a Daily News. Gibbs contents himself with a Daily Graphic, while I choose every day the paper with the least sensational placard.
You can imagine what the journeys are like. Filmer will put down his Daily Express and say with feeling, "If I could only get that infernal Welsher by the throat." Then Rodgers will lay down his Daily News and sneer, "What has aggravated the toadies of the Dukes to-day?" In a moment the battle is in full swing. Bennett breaks in with assertions that peace and unity will never prevail till the Cabinet has been hanged. Chalmers makes a mild proposal for the imprisonment of the Armament Ring which is gnawing at the country's vitals. And when there has been a by-election and both sides claim the moral victory I have no doubt that the men in signal-boxes think that murder is taking place in our carriage.
However, one day Filmer made a reference to Marconi speculations which caused Rodgers to shake the dust from his feet (an easy thing on the Great Suburban line) and leave the compartment at the next station. Then Chalmers and Simcox bore down on Filmer with statistics about our booming trade. When we reached the next station, Filmer darted out of the compartment, declining to travel any longer with a set of miserable Cobdenite Little Englanders. I was horrified—not at the absence of Rodgers and Filmer, which could have been endured—but at the idea that the gaps they left in the carriage might be tilled up by even worse persons than politicians. Suppose golfers took their places. On one occasion, when Gibbs had influenza, an intruder had described to us the fixing of a new carburettor to his car.
Then the great idea came to me—the formation of the Society. The next morning I went up to Filmer and Rodgers as they stood apart from us and each other on the platform and said, "Come to the others for a moment. They want to apologise to you."