Those words would be uttered over her next. Perhaps they were meant for her even now. Surely it was her own wedding and not Hilda's, after all! She was being married, and she wasn't ready! Oh, it was horrible—horrible! And where was Trevor, or Bertie, or someone—anyone to hold her back from that dreadful, scented darkness?
Ah! An arm supporting her! A steady hand that took the flowers away! Trevor at last! She turned and clung to him weakly, crying like a frightened child. Her knees would not support her any longer, they doubled under her weight. But he lifted her without effort, almost as if she had been a child indeed, and carried her away.
He bore her to an open door that led out from the vestry, and there in the fresh air Chris revived. He set her on her feet, and made her lean against him. Jack hovered in the background, but he dismissed him.
"She is all right again. Go and tell your mother. It was an atmosphere to asphyxiate an ox."
Chris laughed very shakily. "I'm so sorry, Trevor. Did I make a scene?"
She would have withdrawn from his support, but he kept his arm about her. "No, dear. I chanced to be looking at you, and I saw you were going to faint. I am glad I was able to get you away in time."
"I couldn't help it," she said, not looking at him. "It was—it was—the flowers."
"I know," he said gently.
She leaned her head against him. It was throbbing painfully. "Oh,
Trevor—it wasn't—only—the flowers," she whispered.
He put his hand over her aching temples. "Tell me presently, dear," he said.