The wedding, of course, was a great dramatic event.  The preparations engulfed everybody.  What flowers should the triumphal arches be made of and were the fair or the dark bridesmaids to be considered in the bridesmaids’ dresses?  Miss Wilcox gave her advice freely and tied cards on to presents but she felt unaccountably depressed.  This, of course, was because dear little Vera whom she had known since a child, whom she had loved as a child, was leaving them and plunging into this strange, unknown adventure.  What an uncertain thing marriage, what an elusive thing happiness!  At nights she would dream of white satin figures shrouded in white tulle veils, of shy, passionate bridegrooms and shy, radiant brides.  Sometimes she would see Vera’s face and sometimes her own and often in the morning, she would find her pillow wet.  “It will be you and Simpson next,” Sir Harry teased her.  But somehow the remark no longer pleased her and she no longer blushed.

And then, one day she couldn’t bear it any more.  Without saying a word to any one she went to London.  A thick orange fog greeted her, a wonderful, mysterious fog, creating immense prehistoric silhouettes, a fog which freed you from old accustomed sights and sounds so that your individuality seemed at last to be released and to belong exclusively to you.

Gratefully Miss Wilcox accepted this gift of privacy.  London belonged to her, there were no prying eyes.  Slowly she walked along the pavement peering into shop windows.  It was difficult to see anything.  At last she distinguished a blur of gold and jewels.  She walked on and then back again.  She stood still.  Her heart was in her mouth.  Resolutely she pushed the door open.  The brightness blinded her, the sudden warmth made her feel dizzy.  Weakly she sat on a chair.  A sympathetic salesman asked her if he could do anything for her.  “No, thank you,” she murmured faintly, “if I might sit here a moment.”

Gradually she recovered and walked out again.  The fog was thicker than ever.  The traffic had stopped.  People bumped into her with muttered apologies.  Hesitatingly, wearily, she walked along.  At last, she reached another jeweller’s.  Firmly, quickly she walked in.  How was she to ask for what she wanted?

“What can I do for you, Madam?”

She looked up like a frightened animal.

“I’ve lost my wedding ring,” she stammered.  “It was a broad gold one.  I—­I don’t want my husband to discover it.”

How easy it was after all.

The salesman was very sympathetic.  She looked at a great number of rings, toying with them in voluptuous hesitation.  She enjoyed fingering them.  At last she chose one.  The gold band on her finger frightened her.  It made her feel a strange, different person, rather disreputable and quite unlike herself.

Miss Wilcox went to the Ritz.  It was, she felt, a place where married ladies without husbands would be neither noticed nor commented on.  There is, after all, nothing so very unusual in a wedding ring and Miss Wilcox’s appearance did not arouse idle and libelous speculations.  But still, she felt safer at the Ritz—­there is something so conspicuous about a quiet hotel.