“Poor old things—­forty years ago they thought it was all going to be so shining,” she whispered.

“It isn’t as if he’s had very good work,” went on the old woman, “but you must take the rough with the smooth.”

A small old man with a black suit and a long white beard came to the door and beckoned them.  They suddenly realized that he was the priest and followed him meekly.

“I’ve often been the officiating surgeon,” whispered Louis, giggling nervously, “but I never understood the point of view of the man on the operating table before.”

“Oh hush, Louis.  I feel so solemn,” whispered Marcella.  She wished very much that Wullie was there.  She felt that he would have understood how she felt as she repeated mechanically the words the old man told her; she did not hear them really.  She was making an end of all her doubts of Louis; she knew, quite definitely, that whatever misery or degradation might come to her in the future, whatever wild or conceited or cussed or tropical thoughts had brought her to this dull little chapel to-night, God was quite surely making her His pathway, walking over her life with shining feet, burning out all the less fine things that did not belong to Him.  She woke up to feel Louis fumbling with her hand to put the ring on; she had been miles and years away, through fires and waters of consecration.

The old clergyman looked at her; he looked at Louis.  The actual service according to the book was over.  He gave a little sigh, turned to lead them to the vestry to sign their names, and then quite suddenly came back and asked them to kneel down.  He talked to God very intimately about them.  Marcella got the queer idea that he was talking to her all the time.

“He must have thought a lot of you,” whispered the old woman.  “It isn’t like him to make up a extry bit like that.  Well, I’m sure I wish yous luck, both of you.  Mind not let him have too much of his own way, my dear.”

Smiling she led away her toothless old man.  Marcella handed Louis the marriage certificate, which he put in his pocket.  Out in the street it was quite dark.

“Phew, wasn’t it an awful experience?  Lord, we’re married!  Married!  Do you really believe it, darling?  And I haven’t given you a kiss yet.  I couldn’t with those old dodderers about.  Oh, Marcella, isn’t it great?  And isn’t it a lark?  But if anyone had told me I’d have got married in a tin tabernacle, slobbered over by a lot of Non-bally-conformists I’d have had hysterics.  We’ll simply have to tell the Mater and Violet!  It’ll be the joke of the century to them.”

She drew a deep breath.

“Louis, can’t we run right away into the Bush?  I do wish we were at home on Ben Grief in the wind—­the thought of that great, big hotel terrifies me.  I feel sort of—­like I used to feel when I went to church with mother on Easter Sundays, when everything was cool and white and smelt of lilies.  Oh, Louis, I do so love you!”