Although their voices reach my outward ears, although I myself say what is required of me with perfect calmness, I do not really hear or heed one word of the ceremony. Thoughts, frivolous and unworthy of the solemnity of the occasion, flit through my brain. I cannot fix my attention on any one thing. I feel no desire to do so.
I wonder vaguely whether, were a widow going to be married again, she would feel as indifferent as I do; then I recollect how, in her case, the bridegroom at least would be a new feature, which would, without doubt, add a little zest to the affair.
How pretty Dora is looking in that navy blue silk and cashmere costume—wonderfully pretty and timid! but then everything always did become Dora.
How nervous that good George appears, and how ridiculously red! Why, he might almost be painted.
Oh! I have ordered no wedding breakfast. Only fancy! a wedding without a wedding breakfast! How could I have been so remiss? They will all think me terribly stupid. I almost confess aloud this negligence on my part, so little do I heed the sacred words that are falling on the air; but fortunately some still remaining sense of propriety restrains me.
The service is nearly at an end; once more Marmaduke Carrington and I are man and wife. It only waits for the few last sentences to be read.
Looking up, I catch Bebe's eyes. Why are they so wet? And how large they are—how large!—why do they grow, and gleam, and burn into mine, like—like—Ah!
I wrench my hand from Marmaduke, and, turning towards George Ashurst, fling up my arms somewhat wildly.
"Save—save me!" I gasp.
In another moment he has caught me, and I am lying senseless on his breast.