Douglas Garrett made no audible response that could be interpreted into the required assurance, but old Mr. Garrett spoke so loudly and confidently that it was almost impossible to believe his observation to be anything but a sort of impromptu rehearsal of the speech that he would deliver at the wedding-breakfast.
The interval of waiting in the church appeared likely to be of indefinite duration, and everybody heard old Mr. Garrett express to his son the hope that the "gurrel" hadn't thought better of it at the last minute.
"Therre have been such cases known, my dearr boy," he dispassionately remarked, "and your I-ris looked to me a highly nervous sort of gurrel."
Lady Rossiter, in the front bench, sank onto her knees, less from a sudden access of prayerfulness than from a very obvious desire to make evident the unsuitability of old Mr. Garrett's behaviour to his surroundings.
"You're not feeling hysterical, are you?" suspiciously demanded Mr. Garrett, whisking round on the instant at this demonstration. "I know what you ladies are. It's a very trying wait for all of us, and I'm afraid my poorr boy may break down if it goes on much longer. Don't let yourself get upset on any account."
At last the sounds of arrival made themselves heard without the church, the bridegroom's expression relaxed, and his father gave a loud gasp of relief.
An explanatory murmur, of the kind that has an origin destined to remain for ever unknown, pervaded the church.
"She's been crying—dreadfully upset—no mother—poor little thing. All right now."
"I said the gurrel looked to me nervous," remarked the elder Mr. Garrett, with conscious triumph in his own omniscience.
"How like Auntie Iris!" thought Julian, for the hundredth time.