Lionel looked a little shyly at his chief. "I wonder," he said, as Winn made no response, "if we can ever do things—things together again, I mean—I should like to think we could." Winn gave him a quick look and moved hastily ahead over the field path toward the church. "Why the devil shouldn't we?" he threw back at Lionel over his shoulder.
CHAPTER IV
Estelle's wedding was a great success, but this was not surprising when one realized how many years had been spent in preparation for it. Estelle was only twenty-three, but for the last ten years she had known that she would marry, and she had thought out every detail of the ceremony except the bridegroom. You could have any kind of a bridegroom—men were essentially imperfect—but you need have only one kind of ceremony, and that could be ideal.
Estelle had visualized everything from the last pot of lilies—always Annunciation ones, not Arum, which look pagan—at the altar to the red cloth at the door. There were to be rose-leaves instead of rice; the wedding was to be in June, with a tent in the garden and strawberries.
If possible, she would be married by a bishop; if not, by a dean. The bishop having proved too remote, the dean had to do. But he was a fine-looking man, and would be made a bishop soon, so Estelle did not really mind. The great thing was to have gaiters on the lawn afterward.
The day was perfect. Estelle woke at her usual hour in the morning, her heart was beating a little faster than it generally did, and then she remembered with a pang of joy the perfect fit of her wedding-gown hanging in the wardrobe. She murmured to herself:
"One love, one life." She was not thinking of Winn, but she had always meant to say that on her wedding morning.
Then she had early tea. Her mother came in and kissed her, and Estelle implored her not to fuss, and above all not to get red in the face before going to church, where she was to wear a mauve hat.
It was difficult for Mrs. Fanshawe not to fuss, Estelle was the most expensive of her children and in a way the most important; for if she wasn't pleased it was always so dreadful. There were half a dozen younger children and any of them might do something tiresome.