Wedding presents--there had been six hundred or so--filled the rooms. People had, on the whole, been sensible, had given the right thing. The little drawing-room with its grey wall-paper, roses in blue jars, its two pictures--Velasquez' Maria Theresa in an old silver frame and Rembrandt's Night Watch--was pleasant, but overwhelmed now by the presence of these two enormous ladies. The evening sun, flooding it all with yellow light, was impertinent enough to blind the eyes of Mrs. Rossiter. She rose and moved slowly to draw down the blinds. A little silver clock struck half-past four. “They must soon be here,” said Mrs. Galleon gloomily. Her gloom was happy and comfortable. She was making the very most of a pleasant business with the greatest satisfaction in the world. She had done exactly the same at Bobby's wedding, and, in her heavy, determined way she would do the same again before she died. Alice Galleon would be there in a moment, meantime the two ladies, without moving in their chairs, flung sentences across at one another and smoothed their silk skirts with their white plump hands. “It's not really a healthy house--” “No--with the orchard--and it's much too small--” “Poor dears, hope they'll be happy. But one can't help feeling, Jane dear, that it was a little rash of you ... your only girl ... and one knows so little about Mr. Westcott, really--” “Well, your own Bobby vouched for him. He'd known him at school after all, and we all know how cautious Bobby is about people--besides, Emma, no one could have received him more warmly--” “Yes--Oh! of course ... but still, having no family--coming out of nowhere, so to speak--” “Well, it's to be hoped they'll get on. I must say that Clare will miss her home terribly. It takes a lot to make up for that--And her father so devoted too....” “Yes, we must make the best of it.” The sun's light faded from the room--the clock and the pictures stood out sharply against the gathering dusk. Two ladies filled the room with their shadows and the little fire clicked and rattled behind the murmuring voices. II Alice Galleon burst in upon them. “What! Not arrived yet! the train must be dreadfully late. Lights! Lights! No, don't you move, mother!” She returned with lamps and flooded the room with light. The ladies displayed a feeble protest against her exultant happiness. “I'm sure, my dear, I hope that nothing has happened.” “My dear mother, what _could_ happen?” “Well, you never know with these trains--and a honeymoon, too, is always rather a dangerous time. I remember--” “I hear them!” Alice cried and there indeed they were to be heard bumping and banging in the little hall. The door opened and Peter and Clare, radiant with happiness, appeared. They stood in the doorway, side by side, Clare in a little white hat and grey travelling dress and Peter browner and stronger and squarer than ever. All these people filled the little room. There was a crackling fire of conversation.