“I shall not proceed with the marriage,” said the Registrar, sternly.  “I have never seen anything more disgraceful in my life.  You come here to enter into a most solemn, I may say a sacred, contract, and you are not able to answer to your names; it is disgraceful.”

“Indeed I am, sir; my name is Matilda, that’s the English of it, but my poor mother kept company with a Frenchman, and he would have me christened Matilde; but it is all the same, it is the same name, indeed it is, sir.  Do marry us; I shan’t be able to get him to the scratch again.  For the last five years ...”

“Potter, Potter, show these people out; how dare you admit people who were in a state of inebriation?”

“I didn’t ’ear what you said, sir.”

“Show these people out, and if you ever do it again, you’ll have to remain in the workhouse.”

“This way, ladies and gentlemen, this way.  I’m the regular attendant.”

“Come along, Tilly dear, you’ll have to wait another night afore we are churched.  Come, Tilly; do you hear me?  Come, Tilda.”

Frightened as she was, the words “another night” suggested an idea to poor Matilde, and turning with supplicating eyes to the Registrar, she implored that they might make an appointment for the morrow.  After some demur the Registrar consented, and she went away tearful, but in hope that she would be able to bring him on the morrow, as he put it, “fit to the post.”  This matter having been settled, the Registrar turned to Frank.  Never in the course of his experience had the like occurred.  He was extremely sorry that he (Mr. Escott) had been present.  True, they were not situated in a fashionable neighbourhood, the people were ignorant, and it was often difficult to get them to sign their names correctly; but he was bound to admit that they were orderly, and seemed to realize, he would say, the seriousness of the transaction.

“It is,” said the Registrar, “our object to maintain the strictly legal character of the ceremony—­the contract, I should say—­and to avoid any affectation of ritual whatsoever.  I regret that you, sir, a representative of the press ...”

“The nephew and heir to Lord Mount Rorke,” suggested the clerk.

The Registrar bowed, and murmured that he did not know he had that honour.  Then he spoke for some time of the moral good the registry offices had effected among the working classes; how they had allowed the poor—­for instance, the person who has been known for years in the neighbourhood as Mrs. Thompson, to legalize her cohabitation without scandal.

But Frank thought only of his wife, when he should clasp her hand, saying, “Dearest wife!” He had brought his dramatic and musical critics with him.  The dramatic critic—­a genial soul, well known to the shop-girls in Oxford Street, without social prejudices—­was deep in conversation with the father and brother of the bride; the musical critic, a mild-faced man, adjusted his spectacles, and awaking from his dream reminded them of an afternoon concert that began unusually early, and where his presence was indispensable.  When the declarations were over, Frank asked when he should put the ring on.