land was the picture of dignity. Gray trousers, black cutaway, gardenia, stately scarlet face.
He gave his weeping mother a little bow—Mr. and Mrs. Baylow beaming at him—keep in step—"Gee whiz, I'm glad I'm free, no we-hedding be-bells for me-he!"
Opal Mendoza in a pew by the door. No one had asked her; she had just come to the wedding, and sat smiling at him from under her broad hat with its long suivez-mot, jeune homme streamers, the blue of her eyes. He stalked past her with Charlotte's hand through his arm, his eyes straight ahead, but he saw her smile—promising, mocking—sweet
And then they were at 29 Chestnut Street. Charlotte was remembering just what everyone had sent them: "Oh, Mrs. Roberts, that beautiful bridge lamp! And the parchment shade will go with anything." "That quaint little door stopper, Mrs. Partridge! It just goes with the chintz I've picked out for my guest room—" "That exquisite etching—" Mrs. Driggs was getting off her little joke about the wedding presents, over and over: "It's a pity no one gave them anything!" Vanilla ice-cream slippers and cupids and hearts skated about the plates under the chipping spoons. Charlotte came running downstairs in her new gray cape suit and Alice-blue hat, and through a patter of rice Mr. and Mrs. Hoagland Driggs, Jr., started on their honeymoon.
Then they were back again, before Kate had fin-
