Lady Dasher was, for a wonder, wise in her generation; and, the twain--not my lady and Mawley, but her daughter and ditto--were married within a month after the public announcement of their attachment, much to the surprise of Saint Canon's, the mortification of sundry single ladies thereof, and the well-disguised delight of Lady Dasher, who, even on such a festive occasion, looked more melancholic than ever.
It was this, that nerved me up to desperation.

Why, thought I, the day after the wedding, as I paced along the Prebend's Walk--over which the long-branched elms and waving oaks and thickly-growing lime-trees formed a perfect arch, in all the panoply of their new summer leaves, sheltering one from rain and sun alike--why, thought I, should that fellow, Mawley, be made happy, and I not?
Really, I could not answer the question at all satisfactorily.
You see, I was not able to come to a decision with myself as to whether I should repeat the darling request which I had made to Min very nearly twelve months before, or wait on still in suspense.

The risk of the former course was great, for, Mrs Clyde might, and most likely would, put an end immediately to all communication whatever between us, should she continue hostile to my suit--an eventuality horrible to contemplate; and yet, would it not be better for me to be relieved from the existing state of uncertainty in which my mind was plunged?
What must I do?
I had to determine that point, at all events.
I could not settle it in a moment: it was far too weighty a consideration--it required serious deliberation.

So, I paced on, still moodily to the end of the Prebend's Walk; and, although it was raining heavily, sat down on the stone balustrade of the little rustic bridge over the fosse, facing the river.--"Ah me!" I reflected, calling to my memory Thackeray's sad lament, in that seemingly-comic "Ballad of the Bouillabaisse," which is all the more pathetic from its affected humour.
"Ah me! how quick the days are flitting! I mind me of a time that's gone When I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place--but not alone.
"A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear, dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me-- There's no one now to share my cup." As I was musing thus sadly, I was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder by Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, who had come up quietly behind me, without my noticing his approach.

He was on his way to pay a visit to his "good vicaire" at the vicarage, after giving his usual Wednesday lecture at the neighbouring "college for young ladies;" where, blooming misses--in addition to their curriculum of "accomplishments" and "all the 'ologies"-- were taught the noble art of family multiplication, domestic division, male detraction, feminine sedition, and, the glorious rule of--_one_! Me grieving, he joyously addressed.
"Ohe! my youngish friends"-- his general term in speaking to me--"how goes it ?--Hi--lo!" he went on, seeing from my face, as I turned my head to speak to him, that, "it" did not "go" particularly well--"Hi--lo! vat ees ze mattaire ?--you look pallide; you have got ze migraine ?" "No," I answered; "there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you, Monsieur Parole.