And so on and so forth, whilst inside the “vine wimen” from London Town made comments after their own kind.

“Some women have all the luck,” remarked an enamelled dame, whose bridge and dressmakers’ debts were on a par with those of her three daughters who had safely, oh! quite, but most unsuccessfully survived many seasons, “I wonder how Susie managed it?  Gawky young miss, isn’t she?  Just out of school.  Um—­um—­um!”

“Really! is she!  Strange in her manner—­you don’t mean it—­oh! of course not, dearest! Fancy! hates society, swims at night, walks ten miles a day—­yes, of course! not quite cosmos, what d’you call it—­um—­um—­um?”

“Miraud Soeurs, I believe—­yes—­did you like that draped effect?  I suppose he did—­poor old Susie’s up to her eyes in debt!  Didn’t the happy bride look ghastly?  Wonder how she came by the accident—­and what it was—­and means—­um—­um—­um!”

“Yes! very, in a bizarre way.  I’m damned sorry for her.  Did you hear about the girl in the shop basement?—­heavy!  I should think so—­put the screw on what?—­hear the bride’s settlement is simply enormous—­um—­um—­um!”

And as they gossiped and criticised, tearing each other to pieces without zest, having already done it so often that their minds resembled rows of backyards piled with the rags and bones of their mutual enemies—­or so-called friends—­the organ played softly, and the sun through the stained glass flung dazzling lozenges of colour upon the tiles and pillars.

Then came that unmistakable rustle of anticipation, followed by the satisfied sigh of those who have patiently waited either for the hoisting of the black flag upon the prison wall, or the appearance of a popular bride in the doorway of the church.

There was a shimmer of white and silver, and a strenuous tussle in the pews and aisles as the stereotyped march from “Lohengrin” crashed through the little church.

Jan Cuxson made one step backwards, and stopped as his heel struck against the wall, then stepped forward and stood right in the path of the bridal party.

Straight down they came without a halt; gushing women who did not know her darted forward to shower the bride with their unwanted congratulations, hesitated and darted back with self-conscious giggles as they met the stony, unresponsive eyes in the death-white face.

Very slowly she passed, with the fingers of one hand resting on the arm of the corpulent, self-satisfied man beside her; the other arm, bandaged from elbow to wrist, was held in a sling across her breast, the fingers nearly touching the one jewel she wore, a sleepy cat’s-eye hanging from a slender golden chain.

The happy bride was looking straight in front, down the road to Calvary, where stood a man outlined against the burst of light flooding through the door.

She neither slowed nor hastened as she passed through the lane of twitching mouths and popping eyes and approached him; then she stood quite still, a gleaming, living statue in shimmering satin and lace, and removing her hand from her husband’s arm, laid it with a little gracious gesture on Jan Cuxson’s, and he, bending low, gently kissed it.