“Good old Benjy!” whispered young Dennant; “I say, they look a bit short of class, those Casserols.”

Shelton, who was acquainted with this family, smiled.  The sensuous sanctity all round had begun to influence him.  A perfume of flowers and dresses fought with the natural odour of the church; the rustle of whisperings and skirts struck through the native silence of the aisles, and Shelton idly fixed his eyes on a lady in the pew in front; without in the least desiring to make a speculation of this sort, he wondered whether her face was as charming as the lines of her back in their delicate, skin-tight setting of pearl grey; his glance wandered to the chancel with its stacks of flowers, to the grave, business faces of the presiding priests, till the organ began rolling out the wedding march.

“They’re off!” whispered young Dermant.

Shelton was conscious of a shiver running through the audience which reminded him of a bullfight he had seen in Spain.  The bride came slowly up the aisle.  “Antonia will look like that,” he thought, “and the church will be filled with people like this . . . .  She’ll be a show to them!” The bride was opposite him now, and by an instinct of common chivalry he turned away his eyes; it seemed to him a shame to look at that downcast head above the silver mystery of her perfect raiment; the modest head full, doubtless, of devotion and pure yearnings; the stately head where no such thought as “How am I looking, this day of all days, before all London?” had ever entered; the proud head, which no such fear as “How am I carrying it off?” could surely be besmirching.

He saw below the surface of this drama played before his eyes, and set his face, as a man might who found himself assisting at a sacrifice.  The words fell, unrelenting, on his ears:  “For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health—­” and opening the Prayer Book he found the Marriage Service, which he had not looked at since he was a boy, and as he read he had some very curious sensations.

All this would soon be happening to himself!  He went on reading in a kind of stupor, until aroused by his companion whispering, “No luck!” All around there rose a rustling of skirts; he saw a tall figure mount the pulpit and stand motionless.  Massive and high-featured, sunken of eye, he towered, in snowy cambric and a crimson stole, above the blackness of his rostrum; it seemed he had been chosen for his beauty.  Shelton was still gazing at the stitching of his gloves, when once again the organ played the Wedding March.  All were smiling, and a few were weeping, craning their heads towards the bride.  “Carnival of second-hand emotions!” thought Shelton; and he, too, craned his head and brushed his hat.  Then, smirking at his friends, he made his way towards the door.

In the Casserols’ house he found himself at last going round the presents with the eldest Casserol surviving, a tall girl in pale violet, who had been chief bridesmaid.