Archbishop of Greenwich, knew this as well as if he had performed the nuptial ceremony. And the loftiness with which his Grace entered into their confidence without being invited, and insisted on a show of keeping the waiters out of it, was the crowning glory of the entertainment.
There was an innocent young waiter of a slender form and with weakish legs, as yet unversed in the wiles of waiterhood, and but too evidently of a romantic temperament, and deeply (it were not too much to add hopelessly) in love with some young female not aware of his merit. This guileless youth, descrying the position of affairs, which even his innocence could not mistake, limited his waiting to languishing admiringly against the sideboard when Bella didn’t want anything, and swooping at her when she did. Him, his Grace the Archbishop perpetually obstructed, cutting him out with his elbow in the moment of success, despatching him in degrading quest of melted butter, and, when by any chance he got hold of any dish worth having, bereaving him of it, and ordering him to stand back.
“Pray excuse him, madam,” said the Archbishop in a low stately voice; “he is a very young man on liking, and we don’t like him.”
This induced John Rokesmith to observe—by way of making the thing more natural—“Bella, my love, this is so much more successful than any of our past anniversaries, that I think we must keep our future anniversaries here.”
Whereunto Bella replied, with probably the least successful attempt at looking matronly that ever was seen: “Indeed, I think so, John, dear.”
Here the Archbishop of Greenwich coughed a stately cough to attract the attention of three of his ministers present, and staring at them, seemed to say: “I call upon you by your fealty to believe this!”