A lump rose in her throat. How straight Stephen stood; how deep and grave and unfaltering sounded his voice. Now it was her turn; she heard her own voice speak, quite clearly. She was not so nervous after all.

I, Stephen, take thee, Elizabeth . . .

She loved Stephen’s voice; it was manly and stern and protective. She took his hand, and began to speak after the clergyman, looking at him, and wondering what made his cheeks so plump and red.

Someone moved beyond Stephen; it was Caryll, of course, with the ring, ready to the instant. She put up her hand and saw the gold circlet slip over her knuckle. She was married; the rest of the ceremony was nothing.

In the vestry there was noise and many kisses. Elizabeth saw Mrs. Ramsay, all in grey with floating draperies and soft plumes; Cynthia, severely swathed in blue; Aunt Anne, dabbing at her eyes; Anthony, hot and beaming, and Lawrence, shaking hands with the clergyman.

She signed her name, conscious of Stephen beside her; then turned to speak to Mrs. Ramsay.

“Has anyone told you that you look an angel?” Mrs. Ramsay said. “Because you do. Stephen had to go and fetch his boots, poor darling. Wasn’t it trying? Stephen, I congratulate you. I believe I’ve said the right thing. I must tell Anthony.” She drifted away, presumably to do so, and Elizabeth discovered that she was shaking hands with Cynthia.

“Congratulations,” Cynthia said. “I knew you’d make a lovely bride.”

Stephen was kissing Aunt Anne. How nice of him to think of that!

“Well, Mrs. Ramsay?” said Lawrence jocularly.

She smiled up at him; Stephen spoke at her elbow.

“That sounds wonderful, sir. Almost too good to be true.”

They went back again into the church; the wedding-march sounded in her ears, triumphant; she thought that she heard bells, pealing. Her head went up, her cheeks were burning, and her hand lay on Stephen’s arm.

In the car they sat side by side, not speaking at first, for Stephen’s head was bent over her fingers. Then at last he looked up, and spoke huskily, almost as though he were awed.

“Little white bride,” he said, and again she smiled, wistfully, thinking, This is not myself, it is a dream.

In the reception-room at the hotel they stood side by side, shaking hands with their guests, laughing, talking, and being congratulated. Everyone said what a pretty wedding it was, and did they see the man with the camera outside the church?

“Famous Novelist Weds,” Sarah said teasingly.

“Anthony wouldn’t let me bring Thomas,” Mrs. Ramsay complained. “Such a shame. Elizabeth, who is that dear man who kissed you in the vestry?”

“This needs looking into,” Stephen remarked solemnly. “Divulge his name, Elizabeth.”

“Only Mr. Hengist,” she answered, laughing.

“Introduce him,” commanded Mrs. Ramsay. “Oh, I suppose you’re too busy! Will nobody introduce me to Mr. Hengist?”