The overture stopped. In the silence feverish whispering was heard in the hall and a man's voice loud and angry: "And for Heaven's sake don't forget which pocket it's in." "Sh-sh." The orchestra was playing Mendelssohn's Wedding March. Fanshaw could see the heads of people moving two by two up the aisle to the end of the room where the minister stood with a purple stole round his neck. The bride and groom were hidden by an orange tree but he could see the backs of the bridesmaids in peachcolored silk and a shimmer of orange tulle on their hats, and the light shining on Mr. Harrenden's bald head. A sneeze across the room was stifled in a handkerchief. There was some coughing in the wedding party and the minister began to read the service in a chanting nasal tone. Fanshaw was breathing deep of a heavy lemonsweet smell... Must be orange blossoms. * * * * The table stretched long and white in both directions, bordered by faces, black coats, bright colored hats. The shine of silver and plates and champagne glasses was blurred by cake crumbs, rind of fruit, nutshells, napkins. Gracious, have I had too much to drink? the thought streaked across the shimmer of Fanshaw's brain and the sound of voices and the smell of food. He was half turned round in his chair, talking rapidly and smoothly, in spite of the fact that his tongue felt bigger than usual, to the girl next to him who wore a pink dress and kept laughing and laughing. "Cultivated people in this generation," he was saying, "Are like foreigners who suddenly find themselves in a country whose language they do not know, whose institutions they do not understand, like people in one of those great state barges the Venetians had, that Canaletto drew so well..." "Isn't this wedding a scream," said the girl in pink, laughing and laughing. "I've never been to such a nice wedding as this and this is my fourth already this winter... If a winter wedding's like this, what would a spring wedding be like? Aren't they just too lovely together? I think Chamberlain's awfully good-looking, don't you?" They were standing up, moving into another room, bright dresses and black coats jamming the doorway. Fanshaw found himself sitting alone in a deep armchair smoking a cigar. What he needed was some coffee, he was saying to himself. After an oldfashioned jolly wedding he needed coffee. He got to his feet and walked with care and deliberation to the table where the coffee service was. My, things were happening fast. Careful, he must be careful. There was no one in the room but a short pudgy man in a grey suit who was drinking a whiskey and soda, shaking the glass meditatively between every sip. "Where have they all gone?" asked Fanshaw querulously. "Getting out the Stutz, I guess." "How's that?" Fanshaw gulped some coffee. "Didn't you know that the young couple were going on their honeymoon in the big red Stutz Harrenden gave them? An elegantly matched pair."