Plynlimmon's company on the occasion of the marriage of their sister
Margaret." The formula was incredible, but it must soon be printed and
sent, and though Wickham Place need not compete with Oniton, it must
feed its guests properly, and provide them with sufficient chairs. Her
wedding would either be ramshackly or bourgeois--she hoped the latter.
Such an affair as the present, staged with a deftness that was almost
beautiful, lay beyond her powers and those of her friends.

The low rich purr of a Great Western express is not the worst background
for conversation, and the journey passed pleasantly enough. Nothing
could have exceeded the kindness of the two men. They raised windows
for some ladies, and lowered them for others, they rang the bell for the
servant, they identified the colleges as the train slipped past Oxford,
they caught books or bag-purses in the act of tumbling on to the floor.
Yet there was nothing finicking about their politeness--it had the
public-school touch, and, though sedulous, was virile. More battles than
Waterloo have been won on our playing-fields, and Margaret bowed to a
charm of which she did not wholly approve, and said nothing when the
Oxford colleges were identified wrongly. "Male and female created He
them"; the journey to Shrewsbury confirmed this questionable statement,
and the long glass saloon, that moved so easily and felt so comfortable,
became a forcing-house for the idea of sex.

At Shrewsbury came fresh air. Margaret was all for sight-seeing, and
while the others were finishing their tea at the Raven, she annexed a
motor and hurried over the astonishing city. Her chauffeur was not
the faithful Crane, but an Italian, who dearly loved making her late.
Charles, watch in hand, though with a level brow, was standing in front
of the hotel when they returned. It was perfectly all right, he
told her; she was by no means the last. And then he dived into the
coffee-room, and she heard him say, "For God's sake, hurry the women up;
we shall never be off," and Albert Fussell reply, "Not I; I've done
my share," and Colonel Fussell opine that the ladies were getting
themselves up to kill. Presently Myra (Mrs. Warrington's daughter)
appeared, and as she was his cousin, Charles blew her up a little; she
had been changing her smart travelling hat for a smart motor hat. Then
Mrs. Warrington herself, leading the quiet child; the two Anglo-Indian
ladies were always last. Maids, courier, heavy lu