"Upon my word," said Lord Rokesle, yawning, "this getting married appears
to be an uncommonly tedious business."

Then Simon Orts laid aside his prayer-book and said: "I cannot do it, my
Lord. The woman's right."

She clapped her hands to her breast, and stood thus, reeling upon her
feet. You would have thought her in the crisis of some physical agony;
immediately she breathed again, deeply but with a flinching inhalation, as
though the contact of the air scorched her lungs, and, swaying, fell. It
was the Vicar who caught her as she fell.

"I entreat your pardon?" said Lord Rokesle, and without study of Lady
Allonby's condition. This was men's business now, and over it Rokesle's
brow began to pucker.

Simon Orts bore Lady Allonby to the settie. He passed behind it to arrange
a cushion under her head, with an awkward, grudging tenderness; and then
rose to face Lord Rokesle across the disordered pink fripperies.

"The woman's right, my Lord. There is such a thing as manhood. Manhood!"
Simon Orts repeated, with a sort of wonder; "why, I might have boasted it
once. Then came this cuddling bitch to trick me into a fool's paradise--to
trick me into utter happiness, till Stephen Allonby, a marquis' son,
clapped eyes on her and whistled,--and within the moment she had flung me
aside. May God forgive me, I forgot I was His servant then! I set out to go
to the devil, but I went farther; for I went to you, Vincent Floyer. You
gave me bread when I was starving,--but 'twas at a price. Ay, the price was
that I dance attendance on you, to aid and applaud your knaveries, to be