Flossie, on the arm of an aged cousin of Derwent’s, moved slowly up the aisle, while the choir sang exquisitely.
“Love divine, all loves excelling.”
Flossie’s head was decently bowed as became a shy bride. Her white clinging dress was designed to show every line of her. It would have been an insult to the designer of that dress if one curve of Flossie had been a secret. Many of the men in the congregation looked from the bride to their wives. Nice women, members of nice clubs where they played bridge. Nevertheless, looking at them, it was hard to contemplate, without envy, Derwent’s honeymoon. Flossie had dispensed with the usual flowers and her free hand held instead a white ivory prayer book. Her face shrouded in its veil, with the eyes downcast to her book, had the sweetness and purity of a small saint from a church window. Behind her, holding her immense train, toddled six little things in rose-coloured frills, and wearing rose-wreaths. All were Menton connections, and therefore suitably well bred.
The service was read with great beauty by a bishop, cousin of the bridegroom, and though, when it came to the responses, Derwent, blind and dazed with happiness, could only mutter, Flossie spoke up excellently. Her voice rang to the very last seat in the church, into which Mouse had smuggled Mrs. Hodge.
“——to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and to obey, till death do us part——”
“Oh dear! Oh my!” Tears rained down Mrs. Hodge’s nose, she forgot that once she, for Alfie, had said those selfsame words.
Fanny mopped her eyes. She did wish George was here. Such a gorgeous wedding, and the way Floss spoke up, anybody could hear she loved him.
Ossie blew his nose. She spoke so trustfully, he hoped she’d be happy, but she looked such a kid.
Jasmine dug her elbows into Mouse at ‘richer, for poorer.’
“He’d better make it richer,” she whispered.
Later, when the champagne had been drunk, and the cake cut, and healths toasted, Flossie went upstairs to change into the blue creation the dressmakers were waiting to put on her. She stood entranced while first the dressmakers’ assistants, and then the porters who came for the luggage, called her ‘My Lady.’ Mouse had come up to help, but there was nothing for her to do, so she leant out of the window to stare at the eager crowd below and the battalions of cameras. Over everything clanged the church bells. Suddenly it all got on her none too steady nerves.
“Oh, blast those bells.”
The dressmakers stared at her with their mouths open. Flossie’s head shot up.
“That’s not a very pretty way to speak. What can be sweeter than wedding bells?”
“What indeed, my Lady,” said the dressmakers.
Mouse grinned.
“Nothing, unless it’s marriage settlements.”