But Compton smiling amiably put his hand over her mouth.
The two girls were still studying the dress.
“Can it be vanity?” the two asked themselves.
All they could do was to suspend judgment.
It was Saturday morning, brighter, more fragrant, more Paradise-like than any morning, so John and Barbara averred, in the golden weather history of Los Angeles. The wedding was over, the most notable wedding ever held in the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The moving-picture world was there, the moving-picture world, and his wife and daughters, and, to a surprising extent, his sons. The church, a bower of beauty, was filled. All was over, and the happy couple, preceded by a flower girl, no other than Agnes Regan, by the best man, Mr. J. Heneman, and supporting the weeping bridesmaid, Bernadette Vivian, were moving in stately fashion down the aisle. As they left the vestibule, there were, thank goodness, no showers of rice and other idiotic performances, idiotic, because out of place at the church. Nevertheless, there was another form of demonstration. Two camera men from the Lantry Studio were on hand with their moving-picture cameras, and with them Ben Moore, the head of the Scenario Department.
“Stop where you are,” commanded Ben. “We’re going to take you.”
“Don’t object, my own,” whispered Compton. “We really owe it to the Lantry people.—Go on, Ben, and tell us what to do.”
“By the way,” continued the groom, “what on earth has become of the little four? I haven’t seen or heard of them all the morning.”
“They told me they had permission to go up in the choir loft,” answered Mrs. Compton. “Bobby left at six, one hour and three-quarters before we started for church. He had something on his mind.—Well, Ben, why don’t you go on and shoot?”