Turning suddenly, she ran hurriedly down the stairs. “Well, well,” remarked the aged retainer aloud, as he closed the door and re-entered the sitting-room. “Now, I wonder what she wants? It’s very strange—very; but, somehow, I believe I’ve seen a face something like hers before somewhere, only I can’t recollect. Ah, well,” he added, sighing, “I’m not so young as I was, and my memory fails me. After all, I suppose it’s only fancy.”
Then he helped himself to a glass of his master’s old port in celebration of the happy occasion.
Meanwhile the slipshod female had turned from Piccadilly up the paved courtyard leading to St. James’s church. She hurried, with wearied eyes and pale, anxious face, almost breathless.
At the door she was met by the pew-opener—a stout elderly female in rusty black—who, seeing her haste asked what she wanted.
“Is Mr Trethowen to be married here to-day?” she inquired.
“Trethowen! Yes. I think that’s the gentleman’s name. What do you want to know for?” she asked, regarding her suspiciously.
“I must see him. Is he inside?”
“No, he ain’t. The party left a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Gone!” she cried in dismay.
“Yes, they’re married,” remarked the woman. “Did you come to congratulate them?” she asked with a sneer.