“Would you—­er—­care to have the pen, Mrs.—­er—­Challoner?”

He had a starchy voice and a starchy manner.

Christine was conscious of a sudden feeling of utter home-sickness; everybody was so stiff and strange; even Jimmy—­dearly as she loved him—­seemed somehow like a stranger in his smart coat and brand-new tie, and with the refractory kink in his hair well flattened down by brilliantine.

She wanted her mother; she wanted her mother desperately; she wanted to be kissed and made much of by someone who really wanted her to be happy.  Tears smarted in her eyes, but she would not let them fall.  Her throat ached with repressed sobs as she took the brand-new quill pen from the white hand extended to her, with a little shy: 

“Thank you.”

Sangster came forward.

“Shall I take care of it for you, Mrs. Challoner?  We must tie a white bow round it, shall we?  You will like to keep it, I am sure.”

Christine turned to him eagerly.  He spoke so kindly; his eyes looked at her with such sympathy.  A big tear splashed down on the bosom of her black frock.

She was all in black, poor little Christine, save for white gloves, and some white flowers which Jimmy had sent her to carry.  She tried to smile and answer Sangster when he spoke to her, but the words died away in her throat.

The gloomy London church depressed her; her own voice and Jimmy’s had echoed hollowly behind them as they made their responses; her hand had shaken badly when she gave it to him to put on her wedding ring.

She was married now; she looked at Jimmy appealingly.

Jimmy was very flushed; when he spoke his voice sounded high and reckless.  Christine heard him asking Sangster to come and have some lunch with them; he seemed most anxious that Sangster should come.  Christine listened with a queer little sinking at her heart; she had wanted to be alone with Jimmy; she had so looked forward to this—­their first meal together as husband and wife; but she bravely hid her disappointment.

“Do come; please do,” she urged him.

They all left the church together.  Christine walked between the two men down the long aisle; she did not feel a bit as if she had been married; she wondered if soon she was going to wake up and find that she had dreamt it all.

There was a taxi waiting at the church door.  She got in, and both men followed.  Jimmy sat beside her, but he talked to Sangster all the way.  He was terribly nervous; he kept twisting and torturing the new pair of grey gloves which he had never put on; they were all out of shape and creased long before taxi stopped again at the quiet restaurant where they were to lunch.

Christine looked at Jimmy.

“What can I do with my flowers?  I—­everybody will know if I take them in with me.”  She blushed as she spoke.  Jimmy’s own face caught the reflection from hers.