“He is a-walking up and down, Miss, ’is great-coat flying behind him.”

Lizzie slapped his face when he burst into her room; and scenes of recrimination, love, and rage were transferred to and fro between Temple Gardens and Winchester Street.  Her girl friends advised her to marry, and the landlady when appealed to said, “What could you want better than a fine gentleman like that?”

Frank was conscious of nothing but her, and every vision of Mount Rorke that had risen in his mind he had unhesitatingly swept away.  All prospects were engulfed in his desire; he saw nothing but the white face, which like a star led and allured him.

One morning the marriage was settled, and like a knight going to the crusade, Frank set forth to find out when it could be.  They must be married at once.  The formalities of a religious marriage appalled him.  Lizzie might again change her mind; and a registrar’s office fixed itself in his thought.

It was a hot day in July when he set forth on his quest.  He addressed the policeman at the corner, and was given the name of the street and the number.  He hurried through the heat, irritated by the sluggishness of the passers-by, and at last found himself in front of a red building.  The windows were full of such general announcements as—­Working Men’s Peace Preservation, Limited Liability Company, New Zealand, etc.  The marriage office looked like a miniature bank; there were desks, and a brass railing a foot high preserved the inviolability of the documents.  A fat man with watery eyes rose from the leather arm-chair in which he had been dozing, and Frank intimated his desire to be married as soon as possible; that afternoon if it could be managed.  It took the weak-eyed clerk some little time to order and grasp the many various notions which Frank urged upon him; but he eventually roused a little (Frank had begun to shout at him), and explained that no marriage could take place after two o’clock, and later on it transpired that due notice would have to be given.

Very much disappointed, Frank asked him to inscribe his name.  The clerk opened a book, and then it suddenly cropped up that this was the registry office, not for Pimlico, but for Kensington.

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Frank, “and where is the registry office for Pimlico in Kensington?”

“That I cannot tell you; it may be anywhere; you will have to find out.”

“How am I to find out, damn it?”

“I really can’t tell you, but I must beg of you to remember where you are, sir, and to moderate your language,” said the clerk, with some faint show of hieratic dignity.  “And now, ma’am, what can I do for you?” he said, turning to a woman who smelt strongly of the kitchen.

Frank was furious; he appealed again to the casual policeman, who, although reluctantly admitting he could give him no information, sympathized with him in his diatribe against the stupidities of the authorities.  The policeman had himself been married by the registrar, and some time was lost in vain reminiscences; he at last suggested that inquiry could be made at a neighbouring church.