But Page was once more deep in her prayer book, so the little old lady addressed her remark to the Gretry girl.
This other, however, her lips tightly compressed, made a despairing gesture with her hand, and at length managed to say:
"Can't talk."
"Why, heavens, child, whatever is the matter?"
"Makes them worse—when I open my mouth—I've got the hiccoughs."
Aunt Wess' flounced back in her seat, exasperated, out of sorts.
"Well, my word," she murmured to herself, "I never saw such girls."
"Preserve to our use the kindly fruits of the earth," continued Page.
Isabel Gretry's hiccoughs drove Aunt Wess' into "the fidgets." They "got on her nerves." What with them and Page's uninterrupted murmur, she was at length obliged to sit in the far end of the pew, and just as she had settled herself a second time the door of the vestry room opened and the wedding party came out; first Mrs. Cressler, then Laura, then Jadwin and Cressler, and then, robed in billowing white, venerable, his prayer book in his hand, the bishop of the diocese himself. Last of all came the clerk, osseous, perfumed, a gardenia in the lapel of his frock coat, terribly excited, and hurrying about on tiptoe, saying "Sh! Sh!" as a matter of principle.
Jadwin wore a new frock coat and a resplendent Ascot scarf, which Mr. Cressler had bought for him and Page knew at a glance that he was agitated beyond all measure, and was keeping himself in hand only by a tremendous effort. She could guess that his teeth were clenched. He stood by Cressler's side, his head bent forward, his hands—the fingers incessantly twisting and untwisting—clasped behind his back. Never for once did his eyes leave Laura's face.