That is the policeman. There is a surge and writhing of this solid mass of womanhood. "Officer, could you stand just a little.... Thank you." "'Ere, Robert, can't you move your fat self? I'm only a little one." All kinds of women: Kensington and Balham and Clerkenwell; virgins, matrons, and grandmothers; some happy, some, no doubt, unhappy. What does that matter? Another bride is stepping out into life with the future in her eyes, and joy and sorrow presiding over her marvellous destiny. * * * "Who is it?" "Lady Agatha Penwhistle!" Not you see, "Who is he?" What does he matter? Half the women have never heard of Lady Agatha. To them she is not Lady Agatha. She is something far more important: she is a bride; she is--Everywoman. In the dark arch of the church porch a certain anticipatory liveliness is noted. Pink young men in morning clothes, white gardenias in their buttonholes, fuss helplessly, asking each other whispered questions, pointing, hesitating, muddling. Marriage is a bad day for young brothers. The boys at the porch have been tumbling over pews and mixing up the bride's guests with those who owe allegiance to the bridegroom. It has been a fearful sweat for them. The sight of Sis at the altar, too, was pretty awful. Of course, George is an awfully decent cove and all that; but still, you know ... so small she was, and so pathetic in white, kneeling there.... One of the young men runs down the steps and officiously opens the door of a limousine in whose silver brackets shine white carnations. The crowd watches every movement. He blushes under the scrutiny. Silly asses, they are! Then as he runs back the doors are flung wide. Suddenly the church vibrates like a great cat purring. The stones seem to rock, as, with a crash, the hysterical triumph of Mendelssohn bursts forth and goes galloping down the wind like a messenger. There are people crowding round the porch. She is coming.... She, the eternal, unchanging, marvellous She! Look, there is a movement in the porch, and then... "Oooh, isn't she lovely!" The Girl in White! Her veil flung back, her straight, slim form moving down the steps, the white satin gleaming as she moves, her bouquet against her breast, and her silver toes peeping in and out from beneath her gown. She smiles. "Good luck, my dear!" A swift turn of her head. Who said that to her? Her eyes brim, for it was very lovely. She gazes over the women's faces--those, at this time, generous women's faces. So she passes. * * * As she goes the women put away their handkerchiefs, for they have all been crying a little, some with joy and some out of the depths of knowledge. To all of them standing there She represented That Which Once Was, That Which Might Have Been, That Which May Be; and something more--oh, much more. For that brief second she was the Ideal. She was Happiness.