There seemed to her something dream-like in their slow progression.  The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of flowers, a sea of blurred faces loomed up at her from the pews on either side, and the young, sweet voices of the choristers soared high above the organ.  She stole a glance at her uncle.  He looked frailer than usual, she thought, with a sudden pang of apprehension; perhaps the heat of the summer had told upon him a little.  Then her gaze ran on to where the bridegroom stood, the tall altar-lights flickering behind him, his face turned towards the body of the church, and his eyes, very bright and steady, resting on Penelope as she approached.

He stepped forward quickly as she neared the chancel and Nan saw that a smile passed between them as he took his place beside her.  A feeling of reassurance crept over her, quieting the sense of almost breathless panic which had for a moment overwhelmed her when she had pictured herself in Penny’s place.  There was dear old Ralph, looking quite ordinary and matter-of-fact, only rather sprucer than usual in his brand-new wedding garments.  The feeling of reassurance deepened.  Marriage wasn’t so appalling.  Good heavens!  Dozens of people were married every day and she was quite sure they were not all wildly in love with each other.

Then the service commenced and the soft rise and fall of responsive voices murmured through the church a little space. . . .

It was over very quickly—­Nan almost gasped to find how astonishingly short a time it takes to settle one of the biggest things in life.  In a few minutes the scented dimness of the church was exchanged for the pale gold of the autumn sunlight, the hush of prayer for the throb of waiting cars.

Later still, when the afternoon was spent, came the last handshakings and kisses.  A rising chorus of good wishes, a dust of confetti, the closing of a door, and then the purr of a car as Penelope and Ralph, were borne away on the first stage of that new, untried life into which they were adventuring together.

Nan’s face wore a queer look of strain as she turned back into the house.  Once more the shadow of the future had fallen across her—­the shadow of her marriage with Roger Trenby.

“My dear”—­she looked up to meet Lord St. John’s kindly gaze.  “My dear, come into the dining-room.  A glass of champagne is what you want.  You’re overdone.”

He poured it out and mechanically Nan lifted it to her lips, then set it down on the table, untasted, with a hand that shook.

“I don’t want it,” she said.  Then, unevenly:  “Uncle, I can’t—­I can’t ever marry—­”

“Drink this,” insisted St. John.  He held out the champagne once more, quietly ignoring her stumbling utterance.

Nan pushed the glass aside.  The whole of her misery was on the tip of her tongue.

“Listen Uncle David—­you must listen!” she began rather wildly.  “I don’t care for Ro—­”