“Here!  Adrian!” Mrs. Doria cried.  “Where is Adrian?  Pray, come here.  Tell me!  Where did this cake come from?  Whose is it?  What does it do here?  You know all about it, for you brought it.  Clare saw you bring it into the room.  What does it mean?  I insist upon a direct answer.  Now do not make me impatient, Adrian.”

Certainly Mrs. Doria was equal to twenty.  By her concentrated rapidity and volcanic complexion it was evident that suspicion had kindled.

“I was really bound to bring it,” Adrian protested.

“Answer me!”

The wise youth bowed:  “Categorically.  This cake came from the house of a person, a female, of the name of Berry.  It belongs to you partly, partly to me, partly to Clare, and to the rest of our family, on the principle of equal division for which purpose it is present....”

“Yes!  Speak!”

“It means, my dear aunt, what that kind of cake usually does mean.”

“This, then, is the Breakfast!  And the ring!  Adrian! where is Richard?”

Mrs. Doria still clung to unbelief in the monstrous horror.

But when Adrian told her that Richard had left town, her struggling hope sank.  “The wretched boy has ruined himself!” she said, and sat down trembling.

Oh! that System!  The delicate vituperations gentle ladies use instead of oaths, Mrs. Doria showered on that System.  She hesitated not to say that her brother had got what he deserved.  Opinionated, morbid, weak, justice had overtaken him.  Now he would see! but at what a price! at what a sacrifice!

Mrs. Doria, commanded Adrian to confirm her fears.

Sadly the wise youth recapitulated Berry’s words.  “He was married this morning at half-past eleven of the clock, or twenty to twelve, by licence, at the Kensington parish church.”

“Then that was his appointment!” Mrs. Doria murmured.

“That was the cake for breakfast!” breathed a second of her sex.

“And it was his ring!” exclaimed a third.

The men were silent, and made long faces.

Clare stood cold and sedate.  She and her mother avoided each other’s eyes.

“Is it that abominable country person, Adrian?”

“The happy damsel is, I regret to say, the Papist dairymaid,” said Adrian, in sorrowful but deliberate accents.

Then arose a feminine hum, in the midst of which Mrs. Doria cried, “Brandon!” She was a woman of energy.  Her thoughts resolved to action spontaneously.

“Brandon,” she drew the barrister a little aside, “can they not be followed, and separated?  I want your advice.  Cannot we separate them?  A boy! it is really shameful if he should be allowed to fall into the toils of a designing creature to ruin himself irrevocably.  Can we not, Brandon?”

The worthy barrister felt inclined to laugh, but he answered her entreaties:  “From what I hear of the young groom I should imagine the office perilous.”