"You'll be losing the ring next," muttered Lethbury; but Mr. Budd
produced this article punctually, and a moment or two later was
bearing its wearer captive down the aisle.
At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught his wife's eye fixed on him
in mild disapproval, and understood that his hilarity was exceeding
the bounds of fitness. He pulled himself together, and tried to
subdue his tone; but his jubilation bubbled over like a
champagne-glass perpetually refilled. The deeper his draughts, the
higher it rose.
It was at the brim when, in the wake of the dispersing guests, Jane
came down in her travelling-dress and fell on her mother's neck.
"I can't leave you!" she wailed, and Lethbury felt as suddenly
sobered as a man under a douche. But if the bride was reluctant her
captor was relentless. Never had Mr. Budd been more dominant, more
aquiline. Lethbury's last fears were dissipated as the young man
snatched Jane from her mother's bosom and bore her off to the
brougham.
The brougham rolled away, the last milliner's girl forsook her post
by the awning, the red carpet was folded up, and the house door
closed. Lethbury stood alone in the hall with his wife. As he turned
toward her, he noticed the look of tired heroism in her eyes, the
deepened lines of her face. They reflected his own symptoms too
accurately not to appeal to him. The nervous tension had been
horrible. He went up to her, and an answering impulse made her lay a
hand on his arm.
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