As Dee turned she raised her head slightly and let one slow look range over the gathered congregation, a gesture inscrutable to many, though the more romantic among the women deemed it conventionally suitable, as a farewell glance proper to the drama of marrying and giving in marriage. But two men in that assemblage, both observers of humankind, both genuinely caring for Dee in diverse ways, read that look and were secretly disturbed.
The rector caught his cue and swung into his part with all the empressement due to a highly fashionable occasion, the ceremony proceeded, its gross symbolism of sex worship, broad paganism, and underlying acceptance of women's slavery as a divine system, thinly cloaked in the severe beauty of the words; and Dee Fentriss was Mrs. T. Jameson James.
Returned to her father's house for the post-ceremonial festivities, Dee admitted Pat to her room where the last packing was going on, and was caught in a swift, hard hug.
"Oh, Dee! You looked lovely."
"Did I?" said the bride indifferently.
"You surely did. Where are you going on your trip?"
"Secret. Washington first, if you want to know."
Pat lowered her voice though there was no one else in the room. "Dee, aren't you scared?"
"Of course not. Don't be an idiot!"
"I'd be. No; I don't know as I would either, if I was crazy about the man." Pat, thinking aloud, did not see her sister wince. "I'd be too curious about—about what came next. You'll tell me, won't you, Dee? Everything?"