“And Miss Tipping?” suggested Flower.
“Miss who?” enquired the small girl, with a superior smile. “Miss Tyrell you mean, don’t you?”
Flower stared at her in astonishment. “No, Miss Tipping,” he said, sharply, “the bride. Is Miss Tyrell here too?”
The small girl was astonished in her turn. “Miss Tyrell is the bride,” she said, dwelling fondly on the last word. “Who’s Miss Tipping?”
“What’s the bride’s Christian name?” demanded Flower, catching her fiercely by the hand’.
He was certain of the reply before the now thoroughly frightened small girl could find breath enough to utter it, and at the word “Poppy,” he turned without a word and ran up the road. Then he stopped, and coming back hastily, called out to her for the whereabouts of the church.
“Straight up there and second turning on the left,” cried the small girl, her fear giving place to curiosity, “What’s the matter?”
But Flower was running doggedly up the road, thinking in a confused fashion as he ran. At first he thought that Joe had blundered; then, as he remembered his manner and his apparent haste to get rid of him, amazement and anger jostled each other in his mind. Out of breath, his pace slackened to a walk, and then broke into a run again as he turned the corner, and the church came into view.
There was a small cluster of people in the porch, which was at once reduced by two, and a couple of carriages drawn up against the curb. He arrived breathless and peered in. A few spectators were in the seats, but the chancel was empty.
“They’re gone into the vestry,” whispered an aged but frivolous woman, who was grimly waiting with a huge bag of rice.