As for what their genial and rugged host had said of certain foolish and dangerous notions about the relations of father and child, he was reminded that there were still more foolish and dangerous ones about the relations of husband and wife.

From the earliest ages of the Church, however, those relations had been exactly defined.  “Let wives be subject to their husbands,” said the Epistle we had read this morning, and no less conclusive had been our closing prayer, asking that the wife keep true faith with her husband, being lovely in his eyes even as was Rachel, wise as was Rebecca, and dutiful as was Sara.

“Beautiful!” whispered Aunt Bridget to Lady Margaret.  “It’s what I always was myself in the days of the dear Colonel.”

“And now,” said the Bishop, “before you drink this toast and call upon the noble bridegroom to respond to it,” (another deep bow to my husband), “I will ask for a few words from the two legal gentlemen who have carried out the admirably judicious financial arrangements without which this happy marriage would have been difficult if not impossible.”

Then my husband’s lawyer, with a supercilious smile on his clean-shaven face, said it had been an honour to him to assist in preparing the way for the “uncrowned king of Ellan.” ("It has, sir,” cried my father in a loud voice which straightened the gentleman’s face instantly); and finally Mr. Curphy, speaking through his long beard, congratulated my father and my husband equally on the marriage, and gave it as his opinion that there could be no better use for wealth than to come to the rescue of an historic family which had fallen on evil times and only required a little money to set it on its feet again.

“The bride and bridegroom!” cried my father; and then everybody rose and there was much cheering, with cries of “His lordship,” “His lordship.”

All through the speech-making my husband had rolled uneasily in his chair.  He had also helped himself frequently from the decanter, so that when he got up to reply he was scarcely sober.

In his drawling voice he thanked the Bishop, and said that having made up his mind to the marriage he had never dreamt of raising difficulties about religion.  As to the modern notions about the relations of husband and wife, he did not think a girl brought up in a convent would give him much trouble on that subject.

“Not likely,” cried my father.  “I’ll clear her of that anyway.”

“So I thank you for myself and for my family,” continued my husband, “and . . .  Oh, yes, of course,” (this to Lady Margaret).  “I thank you for my wife also, and . . . and that’s all.”

I felt sick and cold and ashamed.  A rush of blood came under the skin of my face that must have made me red to the roots of my hair.

In all this speaking about my marriage there had not been one word about myself—­myself really, a living soul with all her future happiness at stake.  I cannot say what vague impulse took possession of me, but I remember that when my husband sat down I made a forced laugh, though I knew well that I wanted to cry.