“Where was the wedding to be?  At Kew?”

“No, sir; at Saint Paul’s church, in Wilton Crescent.  Mrs. Romer would have it so, because that’s the place of worship she used to go to when she lived here.  You’d be in time to see them married now, sir, if you was to look sharp; it was to be at half-past eleven, and it’s not that yet; my niece and a young friend has just started a-foot to go there.  I let her go, because she’d never seen a grand wedding.  I’d like to have gone myself, but, in course, we couldn’t both be out of the house——­”

The gentleman was listening no longer; he had sprung into his hansom.

“Drive to Saint Paul’s, Knightsbridge, as fast as your horse can go,” he called out to the cabman.  “I might even now be in time; it would be a coup d’etat,” he muttered.

Round the door of Saint Paul’s church a crowd had gathered, waiting to see the bridal party come out; there was a strip of red cloth across the pavement, and a great many carriages were standing down the street; big footmen were lounging about, chatting amicably together; a knot of decently-dressed women were pressing up as close to the porch as the official personage, with a red collar on his coat and gold lace on his hat, would allow them to go; and an indiscriminate collection of those chance passers-by who never seem to be in any hurry, or to have anything better to do than to stand and stare at any excitement, great or small, that they may meet on their road, were blocking up the pavement on either side of the red cloth carpeting.

Two ladies came walking along from the direction of the Park.

“There’s a wedding going on; do let us go in and see it, Vera.”

“My dear Cissy, I detest looking at people being married; it always makes me low-spirited.”

“And I love it.  I always get such hints for dresses from a wedding.  I’d go anywhere to see anybody married.  I’ve been to the Jewish synagogue, to Spurgeon’s tabernacle, and to the pro-cathedral, all in one week, before now just to see weddings.”

“There must be a sameness about the performances.  Don’t you get sick of them?”

“Never.  I wonder whose wedding it is; there must be thirty carriages waiting.  I’ll ask one of these big footmen.  Whose wedding is it?”

“Captain Kynaston’s, ma’am.”

“Oh, I used to know him once; he is such a handsome fellow.  Come along, Vera.”

“Cissy, I cannot come.”

“Nonsense, Vera; don’t be so foolish; make haste, or we shan’t get in.”

Somebody just then dashed up in a hansom, and came hurrying up behind them.  Somehow or other, what with Mrs. Hazeldine dragging her by the arm, and an excited-looking gentleman pushing his way through the crowd behind her, Vera got swept on into the church.

“You are very late, ladies,” whispered the pew-opener, who supposed them to belong to the wedding guests; “it is nearly over.  You had better take these seats in this pew; you will see them come out well from here.”  And she evidently considered them to be all one party, for she ushered them all three into a pew; first, Mrs. Hazeldine, then Vera, and next to her the little foreign-looking gentleman who had bustled up so hurriedly.