Among the wedding guests around the board was the beautiful widow, Mrs. Bloomingfield.  Mrs. Pendletime had requested Mr. Rockharrt to take her to the table, and he had offered her his arm, placing her at the board, and seated himself beside her.  The Iron King looked at the lady with more interest than he would have felt had not Mr. Fabian invented a rumor to the effect that he, Aaron Rockharrt, was addressing her.

He looked at the lady on his left critically.  Yes; she was very beautiful—­very beautiful indeed!  And, of course, she would accept him at once if he should offer her his hand!  Very beautiful!  A tall, finely rounded, radiant blonde, with a suit of warm auburn hair, which she wore in a mass of puffs and coils high on her head; a brilliant, blooming complexion, damask rose cheeks, redder lips, blue eyes, and a pure, fine Roman profile—­that means, among the rest, a hooked nose—­a very elegant and aristocratic nose indeed, but still a hooked nose.  She carried her head high, and her well turned chin a little forward, her lip a little curled.  All that meant a high spirit, intolerance of authority, and danger, much danger, to a would-be despot.  Oh! very handsome, and very willing to marry the old millionaire.  But—­no! the Iron King thought not!  She would give him too much trouble in the process of subjugation.  He would none of her.

Cadet Haught, watching this pair from the opposite side of the table, whispered to his sister, who sat on his right: 

“As I live by bread, Cora, there is the aged monarch flirting with the handsome widow!  A thing unparalleled in human history.  Or is it dreaming I am?”

Cora lifted her languid dark eyes, looked across the table and answered: 

“She is trying to flirt with him, I rather fancy.”

“Wasted ammunition, eh, Cora?”

“I do not know,” replied the young lady.

And then the increasing talk and laughter all around the table rendered any tete-a-tete difficult or impossible.  And now began the toast drinking and the speech making.  It need not be told how Mr. Rockharrt toasted the bride, how the chief justice responded in behalf of his late ward, how Mr. Fabian toasted the bridesmaids, how Mr. Clarence responded on the part of the young ladies, how with this and that and the other observance of forms, the breakfast came to an end and the bishop gave thanks.

The bride retired to change her dress for a traveling suit of navy blue poplin, with hat and feather to match, and a cashmere wrap.  Then came the leave-taking, and the jubilant bridegroom handed his bride into the elegant carriage, while his best man, Clarence, gave the last order.

“To the railway station.”

This was the final farewell, for Mr. Fabian had asked as a particular favor that no one of the wedding party should attend them to the depot.  Their luggage had been sent on hours before, in charge of the maid and the valet.  Half an hour’s drive brought them to the station in time to catch the 3:30 train East.