So at breathless speed events had raced, and no one knew exactly what was the state of Nan’s mind even up to the morning of her wedding-day.  Perhaps she scarcely knew herself, so madly had she been whirled along in the vortex to which she had committed herself.  But possibly during the ceremony some vague realisation of what she was doing came upon her, for she made her vows with a face as white as death, and in a voice that never once rose above a whisper.

But when she came at last down the church-yard path upon her husband’s arm, she was laughing merrily enough.  Some enthusiast had flung a shower of rice over his uncovered head, to his obvious discomfiture.

He did not laugh with her.  His smooth, heavy-jawed face was absolutely unresponsive.  He was fifteen years her senior, and he looked it to the full.  The hair grew far back upon his head, and it had a sprinkling of grey.  His height was unremarkable, but he had immensely powerful shoulders, and a bull-like breadth of chest, that imparted a certain air of arrogance to his gait.  His black brows met shaggily over eyes of sombre brown.  Undeniably a formidable personage, this!

Nan, glancing at him as she entered the carriage, harboured for a moment the startled reflection that if he had a beard nothing could have restrained her just then from screaming and running away.  But, fortunately for her quaking dignity, his face, with the exception of those menacing eyebrows, and the lashes that shaded his gloomy eyes, was wholly free from hair.

Driving away from the church with its two clanging bells, she made a resolute effort to shake off the scared feeling that had so possessed her when she had stood at the altar with this man.  If she had made a mistake, and even now she was not absolutely certain that she had—­it was impossible in that turmoil of conflicting emotions to say—­but if she had, it was past remedy, and she must face the consequences without shrinking.  She had a conviction that he would domineer over her without mercy if she displayed any fear.

So, bravely hiding her sinking heart, she laughed and chatted for the benefit of her taciturn bridegroom with the gayest inconsequence during the brief drive to her home.

He scarcely replied.  He seemed to have something on his mind also.  And Nan breathed a little sigh of relief when they reached their destination, and he gravely handed her out.

A litter of telegrams on a table in the old-fashioned hall caught the girl’s attention directly she entered.  She pounced upon them with eager zest.

“Ah, here’s one from Jerry Lister.  I knew he would be sure to remember.  He’s the dearest boy in the world.  He would have been here, but for some horrid examination that kept him at Oxford.”

She opened the message impetuously, and began to read it; but suddenly, finding her husband at her side, she desisted, crumpling it in her hand with decidedly heightened colour.