happiness. His earnest protests had long since been overruled, and certainly no one could have accused him of posing for a single moment as the reluctant bridegroom. The happiness which shone from their two faces seemed to brighten the strangely unecclesiastical looking apartment, in which a cheerful and exceedingly pleasant looking American divine completed the formalities of their marriage. It was a queer little company who hurried back to Elizabeth's room for tea—Elizabeth and Philip themselves, and Martha Grimes and Beatrice sharing the attentions of Noel Bridges. For an event of such stupendous importance, it was amazing how perfectly matter-of-fact the two persons chiefly concerned were. There was only one moment, just before they started for the theatre, when Elizabeth betrayed the slightest signs of uneasiness.
"I sent a telegram, Philip," she said, "to Sylvanus Power. I thought I had better. This is his answer."
Philip read the few typewritten words on the little slip of paper:
"You will hear from me within twenty-four hours."
Philip frowned a little as he handed it back. It was dated from Washington.
"I think," Elizabeth faltered, "he might have sent his good wishes, at any rate."
Philip laughed confidently.
"We have nothing to fear," he declared confidently, "from Sylvanus Power."
"Nor from any one else in the world," Elizabeth murmured fervently.
