“Night of your life,” agreed Polly. “Don’t make any mistake about it. Spin out the descent of that stair as long as you can. Such a chance doesn’t come twice in a lifetime. Come along.” Pelham and John Trowbridge, a friend of Polly’s and of corresponding height, armed with large silver candelabra, stood near the head of the stair. (They had flatly refused to put on livery.) Polly posed Gita between them and regarded the tableau critically. “Hold those candelabra a bit higher,” she commanded. “And don’t wabble. Nor, what is equally important, spill grease on that lace. Now, rest your arms until the band strikes up. I must go ahead and drive them to this end of the hall. Elsie, better light these candles first.” The guests were dancing, but the arrival of Mrs. Pelham, Mr. Donald, and the clergyman in his robes of office, had advised them of some startling change in the program, and they were not surprised when the music stopped abruptly and Polly, her hand admonishing, appeared on the stair. “Come down to this end all of you—over there; and afterward move into the middle of the room.” A moment later a mass of white wigs looked like a sudden descent of snowballs above a variegated flower-bed, ruffled by a faint but agitating breeze. On the broad landing Elsie applied a lighted taper to eight long candles set in high brackets. Dr. Lancaster took his position solemnly in front of the chimneypiece that had looked down on so many Carteret brides. Mrs. Pleyden, who had no intention of striking too incongruous a note, wore a gown of rose-pink velvet with panniers made from a point-lace shawl, and had powdered her hair. She looked haughty and disapproving, however, and so did Mr. Donald, who was to give, thankfully, the bride away. Both were astonished that Polly and Eustace Bylant, the quintessence of modernism, should lend themselves to anything so theatrical. Of course, anything might be expected of Gita, and, no doubt, she had been encouraged by Mrs. Brewster, who was by way of being a “bohemian.” Eustace, wigless and very pale, took his position at the foot of the stair, the bridesmaids behind him. Topper and the other servants, who had been put into dominos, stood in the background. The slow opening strains of the Lohengrin wedding-march stole down from the gallery and there was a faint rustle from above. The hush became breathless. A moment later three figures appeared and stood on the high landing beneath the soft glow of the candles, into whose aspiring flames they seemed for a moment to merge as if to soar upward themselves. Pelham and Trowbridge, holding the candelabra aloft with rigid arms, looked like graven images. Gita, a white wraith, her arms hanging at her sides, her eyes fixed on space, but dazzling with their own light, stepped slowly down the wide stair, her attendants beside her. All three were consumed with fear of taking a false step and stumbling headlong, but preserved their outward composure.