and the whole mighty category.  She protested, she flung herself about, she declared those two ugly bottles should not join the exhibition in the dining-room, where it was laid out for days, and the family ate their meals where they could, on the walls, like flies.  But there was also Uncle Benjamin’s legacy on view, in the distance, so it was ruled against her that the bottles should have their place.  And one fine morning down came the family after a fearful row of the domestics; shouting, screaming, cries for the police, and murder topping all.  What did they see?  They saw two prodigious burglars extended along the floor, each with one of the twin bottles in his hand, and a remainder of the horror of the midnight hanging about his person like a blown fog, sufficient to frighten them whilst they kicked the rascals entirely intoxicated.  Never was wilder disorder of wedding-presents, and not one lost!—­owing, you’ll own, to Uncle Benjy’s two bottles of ancient Jamaica rum.”

Colonel De Craye concluded with an asseveration of the truth of the story.

“A most provident, far-sighted old sea-captain!” exclaimed Mrs. Mountstuart, laughing at Lady Busshe and Lady Culmer.  These ladies chimed in with her gingerly.

“And have you many more clever stories, Colonel De Craye?” said Lady Busshe.

“Ah! my lady, when the tree begins to count its gold ’tis nigh upon bankruptcy.”

“Poetic!” ejaculated Lady Culmer, spying at Miss Middleton’s rippled countenance, and noting that she and Sir Willoughby had not interchanged word or look.

“But that in the case of your Patterne Port a bottle of it would outvalue the catalogue of nuptial presents, Willoughby, I would recommend your stationing some such constabulary to keep watch and ward.” said Dr. Middleton, as he filled his glass, taking Bordeaux in the middle of the day, under a consciousness of virtue and its reward to come at half-past seven in the evening.

“The rascals would require a dozen of that, sir,” said De Craye.

“Then it is not to be thought of.  Indeed one!” Dr. Middleton negatived the idea.

“We are no further advanced than when we began,” observed Lady Busshe.

“If we are marked to go by stages,” Mrs. Mountstuart assented.

“Why, then, we shall be called old coaches,” remarked the colonel.

“You,” said Lady Culmer, “have the advantage of us in a closer acquaintance with Miss Middleton.  You know her tastes, and how far they have been consulted in the little souvenirs already grouped somewhere, although not yet for inspection.  I am at sea.  And here is Lady Busshe in deadly alarm.  There is plenty of time to effect a change—­though we are drawing on rapidly to the fatal day, Miss Middleton.  We are, we are very near it.  Oh! yes.  I am one who thinks that these little affairs should be spoken of openly, without that ridiculous bourgeois affectation, so that we may be sure of giving satisfaction.  It is a transaction like everything else in life.  I, for my part, wish to be remembered favourably.  I put it as a test of breeding to speak of these things as plain matter-of-fact.  You marry; I wish you to have something by you to remind you of me.  What shall it be?—­useful or ornamental.  For an ordinary household the choice is not difficult.  But where wealth abounds we are in a dilemma.”