"You have been, haven't you? Haven't you?" Johnny repeated, as if there could be two answers.
"Why, I was only a private...." Albert submitted.
"So were lots of other good fellows."
"It's soiled," said Albert. "There's a stain on the shoulder."
"All the better. We've done something for the country. Let those people know it."
So Albert walked down the aisle in khaki.
Althea was in white—my wife named the material expertly. She wore a long veil. There were flower-girls, too,—my wife knew their names.
"She's the most beautiful bride I ever saw!" my wife declared. "This is the most beautiful wedding I ever attended!" She always says that.
Johnny McComas was in white, too. As he stood beside the bridal pair he seemed almost too festive, too estival, too ebullient for this poor earth of ours. His wife, whose costume I will not describe and whose state of mind I shall not explore, showed a subdued sedateness—though a glad—which restored the balance.
Raymond Prince saw the ceremony from one of the back pews. If he attended the out-of-door reception at the house, it must have been but briefly: I quite missed him there. For him the wedding proper had been less a ceremony than a parade. I can fancy how he resented the organist's grand outburst and the triumphal descent (undeniably effective) of the bridal party over those six or seven steps. Again he was an unregarded and negligible spectator. I presume he missed Johnny's hand in Albert's, and Johnny's pressure on Albert's shoulder—the one with the stain; and I hope he did. It was the hand of the stronger, taking possession. "My prop, my future mainstay!" said Johnny's action.