She was confusedly kissed, passed from hand to hand, was conscious with a sort of strange aching at her heart that she was not only far from saying the usual heart-broken things in farewell, but was actually far from feeling them.  She laughed at Alix’s last nonsense, promised to write—­wouldn’t say good-bye—­would see them all soon—­was coming, Martin—­and so a last kiss for darling Dad, and good-bye and so many thanks and thanks to them all!

She was gone.  With her the uncertain autumn sunshine vanished, and a shadow fell on the forest.  The mountain, above the valley, was blotted out with fog.  The brown house seemed dark and empty when the last guests had loitered away, and the last caterer had gathered up his possessions and had gone.  Hong was prosaically making mutton broth for dinner; pyramids of sandwiches and little cakes stood on the sideboard.

Up in Cherry’s room there was a litter of tissue papers, and pins and powder were strewn on the bureau.  The bed was mashed and disordered by the weight of guests’ hats and wraps that had lain there.  A heap of cards, still attached to ribbons and wires, were gathered on the book-shelf, to be sent after Cherry and remind her of the donours of gifts and flowers.

Across the lower bed that had been Cherry’s a pale blue Japanese wrapper had been flung.  The girls had seen her wear it a hundred times; she had slipped into it to change her gown a few hours ago.  Anne, excited and tired, picked it up, stared vaguely at it for a few minutes, and then knelt down beside the bed, and began to cry.  Alix, the muscles about her mouth twitching, stood watching her.

“Funerals are gay compared to the way a wedding feels!” Alix said finally.  “I’ve eaten so much candy and wedding-cake and olives and marrons, and whipped cream and crab salad that my skin feels like the barrel of a musical box!  I’m going to take a walk!  Come on, Nancy.”

“No, I don’t want to!” Anne said, wiping her eyes, and sitting back on her heels, with a long sigh and sniff.  “I’ve got too much to do!”

Alix descended to find her father and Peter discussing fly-fishing, on the porch steps.  The doctor had changed his unwonted wedding finery for his shabby old smoking jacket, but Peter still looked unnaturally well dressed.  Alix stepped down to sit between them, and her father’s arm went about her.  She snuggled against him in an unusual mood of tenderness and quiet.

“Be nice to me!” she said, whimsically.  “I’m lonely!”

“H’m!” her father said, significantly, tightening his arm.  Peter moved up on the other side and locked his own arm in her free one.  And so they sat, silent, depressed, their shoulders touching, their sombre eyes fixed upon the shadowy depths of the forest into which an October fog was softly and noiselessly creeping.

CHAPTER IV

Meanwhile, the hot train sped on, and the drab autumn country flew by the windows, and still the bride sat wrapped in her dream, smiling, musing, rousing herself to notice the scenery.  The lap of the cream-coloured gown held magazines and a box of candy, and in the rack above her head were the new camera and the new umbrella and the new suitcase.