Then the party rolled off in the carriages, full speed back to the Marsh, to a large meal of the high-tea order, which lasted for an hour and a half. The bride and bridegroom sat at the head of the table, very prim and shining both of them, wordless, whilst the company raged down the table. The Brangwen men had brandy in their tea, and were becoming unmanageable. The saturnine Alfred had glittering, unseeing eyes, and a strange, fierce way of laughing that showed his teeth. His wife glowered at him and jerked her head at him like a snake. He was oblivious. Frank Brangwen, the butcher, flushed and florid and handsome, roared echoes to his two brothers. Tom Brangwen, in his solid fashion, was letting himself go at last. These three brothers dominated the whole company. Tom Brangwen wanted to make a speech. For the first time in his life, he must spread himself wordily. “Marriage,” he began, his eyes twinkling and yet quite profound, for he was deeply serious and hugely amused at the same time, “Marriage,” he said, speaking in the slow, full-mouthed way of the Brangwens, “is what we’re made for——” “Let him talk,” said Alfred Brangwen, slowly and inscrutably, “let him talk.” Mrs. Alfred darted indignant eyes at her husband. “A man,” continued Tom Brangwen, “enjoys being a man: for what purpose was he made a man, if not to enjoy it?” “That a true word,” said Frank, floridly. “And likewise,” continued Tom Brangwen, “a woman enjoys being a woman: at least we surmise she does——” “Oh, don’t you bother——” called a farmer’s wife. “You may back your life they’d be summisin’.” said Frank’s wife. “Now,” continued Tom Brangwen, “for a man to be a man, it takes a woman——” “It does that,” said a woman grimly. “And for a woman to be a woman, it takes a man——” continued Tom Brangwen. “All speak up, men,” chimed in a feminine voice. “Therefore we have marriage,” continued Tom Brangwen. “Hold, hold,” said Alfred Brangwen. “Don’t run us off our legs.” And in dead silence the glasses were filled. The bride and bridegroom, two children, sat with intent, shining faces at the head of the table, abstracted. “There’s no marriage in heaven,” went on Tom Brangwen; “but on earth there is marriage.” “That’s the difference between ’em,” said Alfred Brangwen, mocking. “Alfred,” said Tom Brangwen, “keep your remarks till afterwards, and then we’ll thank you for them.—There’s very little else, on earth, but marriage. You can talk about making money, or saving souls. You can save your own soul seven times over, and you may have a mint of money, but your soul goes gnawin’, gnawin’, gnawin’, and it says there’s something it must have. In heaven there is no marriage. But on earth there is marriage, else heaven drops out, and there’s no bottom to it.” “Just hark you now,” said Frank’s wife. “Go on, Thomas,” said Alfred sardonically.