They were married at the little Roman Catholic church in 125th Street, Virginia being the solitary bridesmaid, while Stafford—willing enough to enter into the spirit of the occasion and taking a chance that in such a remote neighborhood no one would recognize him—acted as best man. The bride looked pretty and self-composed, while Jimmie was a picture of masculine magnificence in a new frock coat, patent-leather shoes, white tie, silk hat and a collar so high that he could not turn his head round. After the ceremony, they all dined gaily at Claremont at Stafford's expense and then the newly married couple left for Atlantic City, where the brief honeymoon was to be spent—on slender savings which Fanny had carefully hoarded for some time.
Virginia cried bitterly as her sister drove away. It was the first time that they had been separated; she felt as if she was losing the last friend she had in the world. Stafford, full of kindly sympathy, tried to console her. Gently he whispered:
"Don't cry, dear. Don't you see how happy she is? You wouldn't rob her of that happiness, would you?"
"No, indeed," she sobbed.
He bent down closer and whispered:
"One day—she will be kissing her hand to you as you drive away in your bridal robes."
She made no answer and he pressed for some response.
"Won't she?" he pleaded.
Her eyes still fixed on the cab, now fast disappearing in the distance, she murmured:
"Perhaps."