“Where’s Stratton?”
“I—he was to meet me—I—I’ll go and see.”
The words were stammered forth in a whisper, and no one better than he felt how tame and paltry they sounded, while as, hat in hand, he hurried down the aisle, running the gauntlet of a couple of hundred eyes, it seemed as if they stung him, that the looks were more mocking than wondering, while, raging with annoyance, the few yards felt lengthened out into a mile.
Through the baize doors, and under the portico, but no sign of the brougham with the pair of greys that was to bring the bridegroom.
What to do; jump into a hansom and bid the man gallop to Benchers’ Inn?
It would take best part of an hour, and Stratton must be there directly. He would wait and see, even if everyone in the crowd was staring at him wonderingly, while the cold sweat stood out in big drops upon his face.
“What is the meaning of this?” said a stern voice at his elbow, and Guest turned to face the admiral, whose florid countenance was mottled with white.
A few words of explanation followed and then:
“I’ll take a hansom and gallop off to his chambers.”
“No,” said Sir Mark in a low, hoarse voice. “An insult to my child! It is atrocious!”