The Rev. Gideon Voules, thoughtfully lowering a milk and ham-sandwich into the abyss, had drawn George into a corner and was endeavouring to make his better acquaintance.
"I always like to have a little chat with the bridegroom before the ceremony," he said. "It is agreeable to be able to feel that he is, in a sense, a personal friend."
"Very nice of you," said George, touched.
"I married a young fellow in Flushing named Miglett the other day—Claude R. Miglett. Perhaps you recall the name?"
"No."
"Ah! I thought you might have seen it in the papers. They were full of the affair. I always feel that, if I had not made a point of establishing personal relations with him before the ceremony, I should not have been in a position to comfort him as I did after the accident occurred."
"Accident?"
"Yes. The bride was most unfortunately killed by a motor-lorry as they were leaving the church."
"Good heavens!"
"I have always thought it singularly unfortunate. But then it almost seems as if there were some fatality about the weddings at which I officiate. Only a week before, I had married a charming young couple, and both were dead before the month was out. A girder fell on them as they were passing a building which was under construction. In the case of another pair whom I married earlier in the year, the bridegroom contracted some form of low fever. A very fine young fellow. He came out in pink spots. We were all most distressed about it." He turned to Mrs. Waddington, whom an inrush of guests had driven into the corner. "I was telling our young friend here of a rather singular coincidence. In each of the last two weddings at which I officiated the bridegroom died within a few days of the ceremony."