"Yes; I'm well," he answered slowly. "Just worried--as you say. That's all. I thought an hour at home would help--home quiet, you know--home--" There was a frightened widening of her gray eyes, and Shelby pulled himself together. "But I can't lunch with you after all, little girl," he told her hurriedly. "I find I must go back. It seems your mother is--is out. Perhaps you know--" He stopped. What did she know? "I'm just in from a turn about Washington Park," explained the girl. "The maple buds are all bursting. And you should see the crocuses." "Your mother has been called out of town. She will be gone all night, probably--perhaps longer. You had best ask some friends in to stay with you. It will cheer us up. Now go down to your luncheon. You mustn't let me spoil it for you." "But you're _not_ well," she insisted. "I am--I am indeed." Out of a window he caught sight of his wife's coupe. "I'll take that down town," he said. They descended together. In the hall he warned again, "Don't let your luncheon spoil." His foot on the carriage step, he questioned the coachman:-- "Did Mrs. Shelby catch her train?" "Yes, sir," the man replied cheerfully. "I saw to that. A close shave, though. I heard it pull out as we drove away." "That was at what time?" "One twenty-five, sir." "No baggage?" "Just hand satchels," put in the footman. "Mrs. Shelby said her trunks weren't ready." "Drive to Canon North's," directed the governor, jumping in. "He's near the cathedral, you know." The carriage jolted from cobbles to asphalt, rounded the looming capitol with its chateau-like red roofs cut sharply against the pure spring sky, grated the stones again, and halted at the canon's door. The governor had the carriage door open before the footman could leap down, and told the man that he would make his own inquiries. The maid said that he had missed the clergyman by five minutes. Possibly he could be found at the cathedral; perhaps at the Beverwyck Club. Shelby bade the coupe follow, and hurried on foot to the church, which lifted its temporary wooden roof above the clustering episcopal buildings near at hand. Two or three cabs waited at the curb, from one of which fluttered a facetious knot of white ribbon tied to an axletree. A smell of stale incense pervaded the vestibule. The murmured words of a liturgy drifted down the long nave as he passed within. North was reading the marriage service. Shelby bided restively in the shadow of a column till the ceremony should end. It was a small wedding party, merely a handful of onlookers, chiefly teary women, grouped around the courageous pair, whose stanch "I will" woke derisive echoes aloft. "For better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health . . . till death do us part."