with some apprehension, that two fat tears stood in Lady Foggerty's little eyes. At last a bright thought occurred to him—“It must be the anniversary of our wedding!” Primed with this fortunate suggestion, he rose and spoke—
“Ha—hum—sir!" (he had forgotten Sir John's name). “My dear, my very, very dear old friend, in rising to reply to the toast with which you have been good enough to couple my name, and that of my dear, my dear (he had never heard his wife's name), my dear wife, I feel no little embarrassment. On this day, never mind how many years ago (with a deep sigh), Heaven blessed our union—I say—Heaven blessed our union”—
“Hear, hear, my dear boy, my very dear boy,” from old Bortle, who was boo-hooing in his handkerchief.
“It's all right,” thought Freddy, “it is the wedding day." Then he continued—“Yes, on this day, never mind how many years ago—more than I care to look back upon—“
“Four years, only four, my dear boy,” sobbed old Bortle from behind his handkerchief.
“On this day four years ago, my wife and I were married.”
“Frederick!” exclaimed Lady Foggerty, springing to her feet, “pray recollect yourself.”
“I said, my dear, that on this day four years ago, on this day of all others, you and I were happily married—“
Lady Foggerty screamed and fainted. Mr. Bortle, her father, rose, purple with rage, and thus delivered himself:
“Fred! Fred Foggerty! you're drunk—drunk at your own table! He must be drunk—to insult his wife
