ean's disbelief was the result, not of conviction, but of deliberate
intent. She simply did not choose to allow a painful thought to disturb
the unclouded sunshine of her day. She was selfish--frankly, openly,
designedly selfish, as young things are apt to be to whom love comes
before suffering has taught it lessons; to whom it appears a right, a
legitimate inheritance, rather than a gift to be received with awe, to
be held with trembling.

And so the weeks passed. Summer turned into autumn, and one October
morning Jean and Robert stood side by side before the altar of a dim old
church, and spoke the words which made them one for life, while Vanna
Strangeways and Edith Morton stood among the group of white-robed
bridesmaids, hiding the ache in their hearts behind smiling faces. To
one was given the best gift of life; from the others was taken away, by
the saddest of ironies, that which they had never possessed.

The church and the house were crowded with guests; the paraphernalia of
a "smart wedding" was duly and ceremoniously enacted. The newly married
pair stood backed against the drawing-room fireplace to receive their
guests, who passed by in a line, thence defiling into the library to
regard a glittering display of gifts; thence again to the dining-room to
partake of the formal, sit-down luncheon which was the fashion of the
day. The bride and bridegroom sat at the top of the horseshoe table
with the bridesmaids and their attendant groomsmen ranged on either
side, Vanna and Piers Rendall, as foremost couple, occupying the place
of honour. At the conclusion of the meal Jean stood up in her place,
her gauze-like veil floating behind her, and cut the great white cake,
while the spectators broke into cheers of applause. There were certain
points at which it was the custom to cheer at these wedding feasts--this
was one of them; another, perhaps the most popular, was when it came to
the turn of the stammering bridegroom to return thanks for the speech in
which his health had been proposed. It was at the point when the
inevitable reference was made to the newly made partner that the
laughter was timed to break out; but no one laughed when Robert
Gloucester pronounced for the first time those magic words "_My wife_!"

Down the length of the long tables more than one of the elder guests
hurriedly glanced aside, or bit at the end of a moustache, hearing in
that voice a magic note which wafted them back through the