Afterwards it marched on with solemn thrill and stately movement through hours of wondrous preparation for an imposing function, through the splendid gravity of the function itself, accompanied by brilliant crowds collected and looking on in a fashionable church, and motley crowds collected to look on outside the edifice, the latter pushing and jostling each other and commenting in more or less respectful if excited undertones, but throughout devouring with awe-struck or envious eyes.  Great people whom Emily had only known through the frequent mention of their names in newspapers or through their relationship or intimacy with her patrons, came to congratulate her in her role of bride.  She seemed to be for hours the centre of a surging, changing crowd, and her one thought was to bear herself with an outward semblance of composure.  No one but herself could know that she was saying internally over and over again, to steady herself, making it all seem real, “I am being married.  This is my wedding.  I am Emily Fox-Seton being married to the Marquis of Walderhurst.  For his sake I must not look stupid or excited.  I am not in a dream.”

How often she said this after the ceremony was over and they returned to South Audley Street, for the wedding breakfast could scarcely be computed.  When Lord Walderhurst helped her from the carriage and she stepped on to the strip of red carpet and saw the crowd on each side of it and the coachman and footmen with their big white wedding favours and the line of other equipages coming up, her head whirled.

“That’s the Marchioness,” a young woman with a bandbox exclaimed, nudging her companion.  “That’s ’er!  Looks a bit pale, doesn’t she?”

“But, oh Gawd! look at them di-monds an’ pearls—­jess look at ’em!” cried the other.  “Wish it was me.”

The breakfast seemed splendid and glittering and long; people seemed splendid and glittering and far off; and by the time Emily went to change her bridal magnificence for her travelling costume she had borne as much strain as she was equal to.  She was devoutly grateful for the relief of finding herself alone in her bedroom with Jane Cupp.

“Jane,” she said, “you know exactly how many minutes I can dress in and just when I must get into the carriage.  Can you give me five minutes to lie down quite flat and dab my forehead with eau de cologne?  Five minutes, Jane.  But be quite sure.”

“Yes, miss—­I do beg pardon—­my lady.  You can have five—­safe.”

She took no more,—­Jane went into the dressing-room and stood near its door, holding the watch in her hand,—­but even five minutes did her good.

She felt less delirious when she descended the stairs and passed through the crowds again on Lord Walderhurst’s arm.  She seemed to walk through a garden in resplendent bloom.  Then there were the red carpet once more, and the street people, and the crowd of carriages and liveries, and big, white favours.