Home--Devonshire--the lanes and muddy fields--the vicar--the farmyard--the illustrated papers--the picked novels--the dull people--her dear, good mother's absurd care of her.... And then, flashing and dazzling by its contrast, London--its crowds and mystery--its freedom--Hubert, so brilliant and kind--those jolly times with him beside the sea or on the 'bus-tops--the talks on Art and Life and all the things she couldn't understand but longed to--the liberty to cease being a fool and ignorant--the open gate to real existence.... "I _am_ sure," she answered, with a passion that surprised herself. "Quite sure." She was not sure about love, but she wished to marry.... Hubert, in fact, wanted to escape his fond sister and a lone old age; Helena desired to get away from a loving home and her own ignorance. It is quite possible to fall in love with even negative abstractions. At any rate they were very fond of one another, and practised wedding-goers were able to make their usual remark: "How utterly devoted they seem! It is so nice to see them look at one another!" Everybody said too, of course, that Helena had never looked so pretty. She had been arranging presents until one o'clock and not left time to get her hair in order, besides having been dog-tired for a week, and the wedding-veil is seldom becoming, but all the guests seemed pleased. Certainly, with bright eyes sparkling ever so gaily behind the old veil of Argentan lace, and little wisps of hair exuding everywhere, Helena, if not at her best, looked natural and young. Hubert, on the other hand, looked old for his age and self-conscious as only a man can look at his own wedding, but yet unusually handsome. He had not recovered from the dismal farce of a bachelor dinner, where nobody had liked the champagne, the idea of speeches had fizzled out, and every one had gone home before ten o'clock. He was pale and nervous. Yet Helena's relatives decided quite honestly, and in fact unexpectedly, that he was a good-looking man, and even Helena was quite surprised. His new Sunday coat revealed a slim, tall figure generally hidden by old, well-loved tweeds, for he was not a London-dresser. A stiff collar made the greatest change in him, and (had he but guessed!) so soon she decided he must always wear one. His very agony improved his looks. Of the dark, clear-cut type, he was spoilt usually by a too erratic mouth, which rambled on his face and lent a look of weakness to the stern contour. To-day his lips were pressed and firm. He felt a fool and told himself that the whole business was astounding rubbish. If only she had liked it, he would have been married at a registrar's--or down in Devonshire!... He went about with an air of doom among the revellers, and all of them said once again, if with more truth than about Helena, that they had never seen him look so well.