They adjourned to the hall now, to wait for the bride's departure. Her face as she came down the stairs was impassive, gay, with a furtive trouble in the eyes, and once more Shelton had the odd sensation of having sinned against his manhood. Jammed close to him was her old nurse, whose puffy, yellow face was pouting with emotion, while tears rolled from her eyes. She was trying to say something, but in the hubbub her farewell was lost. There was a scamper to the carriage, a flurry of rice and flowers; the shoe was flung against the sharply drawn-up window. Then Benjy's shaven face was seen a moment, bland and steely; the footman folded his arms, and with a solemn crunch the brougham wheels rolled away. “How splendidly it went off!” said a voice on Shelton's right. “She looked a little pale,” said a voice on Shelton's left. He put his hand up to his forehead; behind him the old nurse sniffed. “Dick,” said young Dennant in his ear, “this isn't good enough; I vote we bolt.” Shelton assenting, they walked towards the Park; nor could he tell whether the slight nausea he experienced was due to afternoon champagne or to the ceremony that had gone so well. “What's up with you?” asked Dennant; “you look as glum as any m-monkey.” “Nothing,” said Shelton; “I was only thinking what humbugs we all are!” Bill Dennant stopped in the middle of the crossing, and clapped his future brother-in-law upon the shoulder. “Oh,” said he, “if you're going to talk shop, I 'm off.” CHAPTER IX THE DINNER