A deep sigh rose from the audience, and one or two of the men whose secret life was ruled by a passionate devotion to beauty, winked away tears. Even the scornful muscles of Mrs. Pleyden’s face relaxed, and she reflected that she would have a tale to tell on many morrows. The music rose and swelled through the old hall. The torches seemed to flame higher, and the dark faces of Carterets stood out as saliently as the living members of the drama enacting below. The stately trio reached the foot of the stair and Eustace took Gita’s hand and led her forward, unmindful of Mr. Donald’s crooked arm and heightened color. The bridesmaids spread out their trains and stepped daintily behind. The candelabra were lowered with a sigh of relief and Pelham advanced to his position as best man. The ceremony began. Once Eustace felt Gita’s hand twitch as if she would snatch it away, but he held it firmly. Dr. Lancaster had a deep solemn voice and it boomed out much as it had done at the funeral ceremonies eight months before. Gita shivered, but she uttered her vows firmly, and held out a rigid finger for the ring. Then she sank to her knees on the cushion thoughtfully provided by Topper, and set her teeth as the solemn blessing rolled over her head. A moment later she was on her feet again listening to a loud excited buzz of congratulations. She submitted to being kissed by Mrs. Pleyden and the girls, then broke away and ran toward the dining-room. “If you are not all famished I am,” she cried in a high and not unhysterical voice. “And you must lose no time drinking our health.” PART II CHAPTER I “Nothing and Nobody, By Elizabeth Pelham” was published in the spring, and as critics and columnists pronounced it another notable contribution to undiluted Americanism and as her publisher’s enthusiasm expressed itself in picturesque advertising it had a fair success. The sale barely reached seven thousand copies, but the event established her in sophisticate society and the Lucy Stone League invited her to sit at the Speakers’ Table at their annual dinner. “But privately I don’t think much of it,” she said to Gita. “They are all very kind and overlook defects because it is modern and sincere and rather disagreeable. But I know I’ll do better and better, and I never was so happy in my life.” “Eustace thinks it a remarkable first novel, and I know it by heart. Seems all right to me.” Elsie shook her head solemnly. “It has holes in it. But it is seeing your stuff in print that educates, not critics.” They were in Gita’s sitting-room in the West Twelfth Street house, the windows open to the warm breezes of spring. “How is Eustace’s book getting on?” asked Elsie, who was still able to interest herself in the work of other authors. “It should be nearly finished.”