The ritual began with the pleasant murmur of the preacher's voice, and the passengers crowded round in a solemn calm, which was suddenly violated by a loud yelp of laughter from Wedgewood, who emitted guffaw after guffaw and bent double and opened out again, like an agitated umbrella.
The wedding-guests turned on him visages of horror, and hissed silence at him. Ashton seized him, shook him, and muttered:
"What the—what's the matter with you?"
The Englishman shook like a boy having a spasm of giggles at a funeral, and blurted out the explanation:
"That story about the bridegroom—I just saw the point!"
Ashton closed his jaw by brute force and watched over him through the rest of the festivity.
CHAPTER XXXI
FOILED YET AGAIN
Mallory had fled from the scene at the first hum of the minister's words. His fate was like alkali on his palate. For twelve hundred miles he had ransacked the world for a minister. When one dropped on the train like manna through the roof, even this miracle had to be checkmated by a perverse miracle that sent to the train an early infatuation, a silly affair that he himself called puppy-love. And now Marjorie would never marry him. He did not blame her. He blamed fate.
He was in solitude in the smoking room. The place reeked with drifting tobacco smoke and the malodor of cigar stubs and cigarette ends. His plans were as useless and odious as cigarette ends. He dropped into a chair his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands—Napoleon on St. Helena.
And then, suddenly he heard Marjorie's voice. He turned and saw her hesitating in the doorway. He rose to welcome her, but the smile died on his lips at her chilly speech: