After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women’s sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men’s sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast.

“Too bad the breakfast is at old Catherine’s,” the bridegroom could fancy Reggie Chivers saying.  “But I’m told that Lovell Mingott insisted on its being cooked by his own chef, so it ought to be good if one can only get at it.”  And he could imagine Sillerton Jackson adding with authority:  “My dear fellow, haven’t you heard?  It’s to be served at small tables, in the new English fashion.”

Archer’s eyes lingered a moment on the left-hand pew, where his mother, who had entered the church on Mr. Henry van der Luyden’s arm, sat weeping softly under her Chantilly veil, her hands in her grandmother’s ermine muff.

“Poor Janey!” he thought, looking at his sister, “even by screwing her head around she can see only the people in the few front pews; and they’re mostly dowdy Newlands and Dagonets.”

On the hither side of the white ribbon dividing off the seats reserved for the families he saw Beaufort, tall and redfaced, scrutinising the women with his arrogant stare.  Beside him sat his wife, all silvery chinchilla and violets; and on the far side of the ribbon, Lawrence Lefferts’s sleekly brushed head seemed to mount guard over the invisible deity of “Good Form” who presided at the ceremony.

Archer wondered how many flaws Lefferts’s keen eyes would discover in the ritual of his divinity; then he suddenly recalled that he too had once thought such questions important.  The things that had filled his days seemed now like a nursery parody of life, or like the wrangles of mediaeval schoolmen over metaphysical terms that nobody had ever understood.  A stormy discussion as to whether the wedding presents should be “shown” had darkened the last hours before the wedding; and it seemed inconceivable to Archer that grown-up people should work themselves into a state of agitation over such trifles, and that the matter should have been decided (in the negative) by Mrs. Welland’s saying, with indignant tears:  “I should as soon turn the reporters loose in my house.”  Yet there was a time when Archer had had definite and rather aggressive opinions on all such problems, and when everything concerning the manners and customs of his little tribe had seemed to him fraught with world-wide significance.

“And all the while, I suppose,” he thought, “real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them . . .”

“There they come!” breathed the best man excitedly; but the bridegroom knew better.

The cautious opening of the door of the church meant only that Mr. Brown the livery-stable keeper (gowned in black in his intermittent character of sexton) was taking a preliminary survey of the scene before marshalling his forces.  The door was softly shut again; then after another interval it swung majestically open, and a murmur ran through the church:  “The family!”