"This is the Reverend Gideon Voules," said Molly. "He is going to marry us."
"This," said Mrs. Waddington, turning to the clergyman and speaking in a voice which seemed to George's sensitive ear to contain too strong a note of apology, "is the bridegroom."
The Reverend Gideon Voules looked at George with a dull and poached-egg-like eye. He did not seem to the latter to be a frightfully cheery sort of person: but, after all, when you're married, you're married, no matter how like a poached egg the presiding minister may look.
"How do you do?" said the Rev. Gideon.
"I'm fine," said George. "How are you?"
"I am in robust health, I thank you."
"Splendid! Nothing wrong with the ankles, eh?"
The Rev. Gideon glanced down at them and seemed satisfied with this section of his lower limbs, even though they were draped in white socks.
"Nothing, thank you."
"So many clergymen nowadays," explained George, "are falling off chairs and spraining them."