"The lighted end of a torch may be turned towards the ground, but the flames still point upwards."—The Satakas.
The church was simply packed!
The lucky ones, almost all women, wedged tight and fast, crushed their beautiful clothes against their neighbours' lovely raiment in the pews.
The unlucky ones stood in rows in the side aisles, just as their commoner sisters stand in rows upon the pavement edge to watch some passing show.
Some, less hindered by superfluous adipose tissue, had managed to seat themselves upon the tomb of one Sir William de Tracy, who had one time unduly concerned himself in the murder of a certain Thomas à Becket.
Indeed he built this church in atonement for his unseemly conduct, though something seems to have gone agley in the architectural penance, as the ghost of Sir William is to be met o' nights upon the sands of Woolacombe—so 'tis said.
Some of the still younger fry among the spectators, I mean worshippers in this solemn ceremony, clasped the heads in effigy of dead squire, or dame, or knight, in order to get the necessary purchase for the task of pulling themselves up for just one second in the supreme attempt to catch a glimpse of the principals in the parade.
Except for the setting of this beautiful house of God it might have been an entr'acte at some theatrical first night; same comments upon actors and audience; same criticism upon dress and morals; same yawning and fidgeting.
What had they not suffered and sacrificed to flatter the vulgar old millionaire! Anyway they expected a good deal in return for the excruciating journey down by rail or car, the whole day lost out of the season in London town, and the wedding present.
Unless you own the genuine thing in rank or reputation, how frightfully difficult it is to send an astute vulgar old millionaire the one present which will open his doors to you.