He looked at her, and mechanically stretched out a hand to an advancing guest. Selina was his now. He not only was out of that church and never would have to go into it again for such a purpose as he had gone this morning, but Selina Everest was Mrs. Peter Jimson.
He smiled an alarming smile at her, a smile so extraordinarily comprehensive, that she hurriedly asked under her breath if he were ill.
“No,” he said, and, in so saying, clasped the hand of the advancing friend with such vigour, that the unhappy man retreated swiftly with his unspoken congratulations on his lips.
“I’m not ill,” he muttered. “I’m only a little flustered, Selina.”
“Here’s Mrs. Short,” she said, hastily, “be nice to her. She’s a particular friend of mine.”
“A fine day, ma’am,” murmured the Mayor; “yes, the crops seem good—ought to have rain, though.”
Over by a French window opening on the lawn, Berty and Tom were watching the people and making comments.
“Always get mixed up about a bride and groom,” volunteered Tom. “Always want to congratulate her, and hope that he’ll be happy. It’s the other way, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so,” murmured Berty. “Oh, isn’t it a dream to think that they’re both happy?”