“You need not distress yourself, my dear. It is all right. ‘Irregular’ is only a name for a particular form of marriage in this Country. It is equally legal with any other marriage.”
“But who is Lord Athlyne, and where is he? That is the name of the man who Mrs. O’Brien told Joy was the only man good enough for her.”
“Lord Athlyne” said Colonel Ogilvie “at present our son-in-law, is none other than Mr. Richard Hardy with whom you shook hands just now!”
“Lucius, I am all amazed! There seems to be a sort of network of mystery all round us. But one thing: if Joy was married yesterday how on earth can she be going to be married to-day?”
“To avoid the possibility of legal complications later on! It is all right, my dear. You may take it from me that there is no cause for concern! But there were certain things, usually attended to beforehand, which on this occasion—owing to ignorance and hurry and unpremeditation—were not attended to. In order to prevent the possibility of anything going wrong by any quibble, they are to be married again just now.”
“Where? when?”
“Here, in this room!”
“But where’s the clergyman; where is the license?”
“There is neither. This is a Scottish marriage! Later on we can have a regular church marriage with a bishop if you wish or an archbishop; in a church or a room or a Cathedral—just as you prefer.” Mrs. Ogilvie perceptibly stiffened as he spoke. Then she said, with what she thought was dignified gravity, which seemed to others like frigid acidity:
“Do I understand, Colonel Ogilvie, that you are a consenting party to another ‘irregular’”—she quivered as she said the word—“marriage? And that my daughter is to be made a laughing stock amongst all our acquaintances by three different marriages?”