Miriam’s eyes shone under her hat-brim.
“Not reely!” she whispered.
“You’re all right,” he said with the feeling of observation and criticism stiffening his lips. He cleared his throat.
The verger’s hand pushed at him from behind. Someone was driving Miriam towards the altar rail and the clergyman. “We’re in for it,” said Mr. Polly to her sympathetically. “Where? Here? Right O.”
He was interested for a moment or so in something indescribably habitual in the clergyman’s pose. What a lot of weddings he must have seen! Sick he must be of them!
“Don’t let your attention wander,” said the eye.
“Got the ring?” whispered Johnson.
“Pawned it yesterday,” answered Mr. Polly and then had a dreadful moment under that pitiless scrutiny while he felt in the wrong waistcoat pocket. . . .
The officiating clergy sighed deeply, began, and married them wearily and without any hitch.
“D’b’loved, we gath’d ’gether sight o’ Gard ’n face this con’gation join ’gather Man, Worn’ Holy Mat’my which is on’bl state stooted by Gard in times man’s innocency. . . .”
Mr. Polly’s thoughts wandered wide and far, and once again something like a cold hand touched his heart, and he saw a sweet face in sunshine under the shadow of trees.
Someone was nudging him. It was Johnson’s finger
