‘Of course!’ groaned Mrs Snooksey and Mrs Tooksey in melancholy duet. ‘What else can you expect of a—of a public character? Poor, dear Carlyon! One cannot help feeling sorry for him!’ So on, and in such wise, the jumble of humanity which is called ‘society’ gabbled, sniggered and sneered; nevertheless, despite dismal head-shakings and dreary forebodings, ‘poor, dear Carlyon’ carried out his intention, and married Delicia in the presence of one of the most brilliant assemblages of notabilities ever assembled at a wedding. The marriage of a Guards officer is always a pretty sight, but when the fame of Delicia was added to the fame of the regiment, it was no wonder the affair created a sensation and a flutter in the world of fashionable news and ladies’ pictorials. Delicia astonished and irritated several members of her own sex by the extreme simplicity of her dress on the occasion. She always managed somehow, quite unintentionally, to astonish and irritate her sweet ‘sisters’ in womanhood, who, forced to admit her intellectual superiority to themselves, loved her accordingly. Thus her very wedding garment was an affront to them, being only a classic gown of softly-draped white silk _crêpe-de-chine_, without any adornment of either lace or flowers. Then her bridal veil was a vexatious thing, because it was so unusually becoming—it was made of white chiffon, and draped her, like a moonlight mist, from head to foot, a slender chaplet of real orange-blossoms being worn with it. And that was all—no jewels, no bouquet—she only carried a small ivory prayer-book with a plain gold cross mounted on the cover. She looked the very picture of a Greek vestal virgin, but in the eyes of the fashion-plate makers there was a deplorable lack of millinery about her. What would God think of it! Could anything be more irreverent than for a woman of position and fortune to take her marriage-vows before the altar of the Most High without wearing either a court train or diamonds! And the bridesmaids made no great ‘show’—they were only little girls, none of them over ten years of age. There were eight of these small damsels, clad in blush-pink like human roses, and very sweet they looked following the lissom, white-veiled form of Delicia as she moved with her own peculiarly graceful step and ethereal air between the admiring rows of the selected men of her husband’s regiment, who lined either side of the chancel in honour of the occasion. The ceremony was brief; but those who were present somehow felt it to be singularly impressive. There was a faint suggestion of incongruity in the bridegroom’s eloquently-pronounced declaration—‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow,’ which provoked one of his brother officers to profanely whisper in the ear of a friend, ‘By Jove! I don’t think he’s got anything to give her but his hair-brushes. They were a present; but most of his other things are on tick!’