"I don't," said I.
He walked about the library in his space—occupying way.
"I'm going to tear the damned thing up! I'm never going to write a novel again. I cut it out altogether. It's the least I can do for her."
"Isn't that rather quixotic?" I asked.
"Suppose it is. What have you to say against it?"
"Nothing," said I.
"Well, keep on saying it," replied Jaffery, with the steel flash in his eyes.
They were married. Our vicar performed the ceremony. I gave the bride away. Liosha revealed the feminine kink in her otherwise splendid character by insisting on the bridal panoply of white satin, veil and orange blossoms. I confess she looked superb. She looked like a Valkyr. A leather-visaged war correspondent, named Burchester, whom I had never seen before, and have not seen since, acted as best man. Susan, tense with the responsibilities of office, was the only bridesmaid. Mrs. Jupp (late Considine) and her General were our only guests. Doria excused herself from attendance, but sent the bride a travelling-case fitted with a myriad dazzling gold-stoppered bottles and a phantasmagoria of gold-mounted toilette implements.
And then they went on their honeymoon. And where do you think they went? They signed again on the steamship Vesta. And Captain Maturin gave them his cabin, which is more than I would have done, and slept, I presume, in the dog-hole. And they were as happy as the ship was abominable.