". . . to love, cherish, and to obey till death us do part."
Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and looked at Jimmy
Challoner.
A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained glass window above the altar, fell on her face and slim figure; her voice was quite clear and steady, though a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words after the rather bored-looking clergyman.
Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish where neither of them was known; he had got a special licence, and there was nobody in the church but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of Christine's, who thought the whole affair a great bother, and who had looked up a train to catch back home the very moment that Christine should have safely passed out of his keeping into her husband's.
He bade them "good-bye" in the vestry; he kissed Christine rather awkwardly, and said that he hoped she would be happy; his voice seemed to imply a doubt. He shook hands with Jimmy and called him a lucky dog; he spoke like a man who hardly realises what he is saying; he shook hands with Sangster and hurried away.
They heard him creaking down the aisle of the church, and the following slam of the heavy door behind him; there was a little awkward silence.
The clergyman was blotting Christine's new name in the register; he looked up at her with short-sighted eyes, a quill pen held between his teeth.
"Would you—er—care to have the pen, Mrs.—er—Challoner?"
He had a starchy voice and a starchy manner.
Christine was conscious of a sudden feeling of utter home-sickness; everybody was so stiff and strange; even Jimmy—dearly as she loved him—seemed somehow like a stranger in his smart coat and brand-new tie, and with the refractory kink in his hair well flattened down by brilliantine.