‘He did ought to have sent you his photograph, Lady Mary,’ said Clara, with a reproachful air.

’I daresay he would have done so, Clara, but he has been photographed only once in his life.’

’Lawk a mercy, Lady Mary!  Why most young gentlemen have themselves photographed in every new place they go to; and as Mr. Hammond has been a traveller, like his lordship, I made sure he’d have been photographed in knickerbockers and every other kind of attitude.’

Mary had not refrained from asking for her lover’s portrait; and he had told her that he had carefully abstained from having his countenance reproduced in any manner since his fifteenth year, when he had been photographed at his mother’s desire.

’The present fashion of photographs staring out of every stationer’s window makes a man’s face public property,’ he told Mary.  ’I don’t want every street Arab in London to recognise me.’

‘But you are not a public man,’ said Mary.  ’Your photograph would not be in all the windows; although, in my humble opinion, you are a very handsome man.’

Hammond blushed, laughed, and turned the conversation, and Mary had to exist without any picture of her lover.

‘Millais shall paint me in his grand Reynolds manner by-and-by,’ he told Mary.

’Millais!  Oh, Jack!  When will you and I be able to give a thousand or so for a portrait?’

’Ah, when, indeed?  But we may as well enjoy our day-dreams, like Alnaschar, without smashing our basket of crockery.’

And now Mary, who had managed to exist without the picture, was to have the original.  He was to be all her own—­her master, her lord, her love, after to-morrow—­unto eternity, in life, and in the grave, and in the dim hereafter beyond the grave, they two were to be one.  In heaven there was to be no marrying or giving in marriage, Mary was told; but her own heart cried aloud to her that the happily wedded must remain linked in heaven.  God would not part the blessed souls of true lovers.

A short sleep, broken by happy dreams, and it was morning, Mary’s wedding morning, fairest of summer days, July in all her beauty.  Mary went to her grandmother’s room, and waited upon her at breakfast.

Lady Maulevrier was in excellent spirits.

’Everything is arranged, Mary, I have had a telegram from Hammond, who has got the licence, and will come at half-past one.  At three the Vicar will come to marry you, his daughters, Katie and Laura, acting as your bridesmaids.’

‘Bridesmaids!’ exclaimed Mary.  ’I forgot all about bridesmaids.  Am I really to have any?’

’You will have two girls of your own age to bear you company, at any rate.  I have asked dear old Horton to be present; and he, Fraeulein, and Maulevrier will complete the party.  It will not be a brilliant wedding, Mary, or a costly ceremonial, except for the licence.’

‘And poor Jack will have to pay for that,’ said Mary, with a long face.