She patted a yawn and interrogated a clock. It was not yet noon, but she had fancied it earlier. Pushing the silks aside, she got from the bed to the bath. Before the latter was a mirror. For a moment, the point of her tongue just visible, she looked herself up and down. Then absently, her thoughts on other things, she perfumed the water and hid herself there.
The chill aroused her. Presently, without haste, she began to dress. The ceremony was one which she always accomplished alone. The presence of her maid annoyed her exceedingly, and, though this morning differed from all others, it was not until she had her hat on that she opened a door and called:
“Harriet!”
“Yes, mem.” The maid entered, prim as a Puritan Sunday. “They are waiting for you, mem. Your father—”
Marie interrupted her. “Put those things in the bag and give it to Harris with the boxes. Are they packed? How do I look? Go down and tell Mr. Usher I am coming. When did my father get here? This morning?”
“Yes, mem.” The woman nodded and turned.
Marie went back to the mirror. Her dress was of cloth, light violet. It had fur effects that were repeated on her hat. In spite of her coloring, or, perhaps, because of it, it became her. And now, as she looked, she bent forward and kissed herself in the glass.
“Goodbye, Marie.”
She looked about the room. On a mantel were some photographs.
“Goodbye, everybody.”
Her voice was contralto. As she spoke she smiled and showed her teeth. They were small, slightly uneven, and semitransparent.
On the stair beyond was a man. He looked as though he had seen worse days and never intended to see them again.
“I was coming for you,” he began. “I must speak to you.”
Marie interrupted him as she had her maid. “I expected you last night. How do you like my hat? Have you seen Paul?”
From an adjoining room a clergyman issued. He was in full canonicals. The girl went back a step, stretched a hand, showed her teeth and the point of her tongue.
“I am Miss Mermex.”
“For but a brief while now,” the clergyman answered.
“This is my father,” she added.
“I am just in town,” Mr. Mermex announced. “I got here an hour ago from San Francisco. I—”
Marie interrupted him again. She gave him a slight shove, which he obeyed, and down the stair all three went.
In the wide hall below people straggled from the drawing room to greet her. There was her aunt, Mrs. Metuchen, a little old frump. There was her immediate husband, Paul Usher. There was Mrs. Usher, his mother. There were the Enevers, society folk of the toppest notch. There was also Alphabet Jones, a man of polite letters.
Mrs. Usher’s costume indicated mourning, Mrs. Metuchen’s the Flood, and Mrs. Enever’s the Rue de la Paix. Marie, fair as an angel, yet, of course, much better dressed, beamed on them all.
Usher took her hand and kissed it. Had he not been a broker you would have suspected him of it. Marie, smiling still, showed again the point of her tongue. It was like a little piece of watermelon. Meanwhile, everybody was talking to her; Mrs. Metuchen very shrilly. Mrs. Usher approached, gratified her with a frosty caress, and stepped gingerly away.
“Many happy returns,” Jones murmured, seductively.
“Gracious!” Mrs. Enever exclaimed. “Gracious!” she repeated, delightedly. “What a congratulation to a bride!”
“She reminds me,” Mrs. Usher whispered, “of a beautiful animal. But I have found it well not to be too precipitate.”
“Gracious! I should hope so!”
“Marie,” began Mr. Mermex. He had got near his daughter again, but Mrs. Enever’s husband was talking to her. The girl interrupted them both.
“Suppose we go in.”
The group parted. Through it, into the drawing room, the girl passed, the clergyman following, the others at his heels. At one end, between the windows, two cushions had been placed. The clergyman got behind them, his back to the wall, and, fumbling in his skirt, produced a book. At once he assumed an attitude that was amiably austere.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here—” Before him the bride and groom were standing. The others, distributed as for a photograph, seemed reverently disposed. Mr. Mermex alone was restless, and, in a moment, as the opening exordium concluded with the mandate, “If any man can show just cause why these two persons may not be lawfully joined—” he raised a hand, his mouth opened, something trembled on his tongue. But, save Marie, who turned, smilling still, no one noticed.
“I require and charge you both, as you will answer at the dreadful day of judgment.”
Marie had turned again. She was listening now devoutly. Into her sultry eyes there had entered an expression almost saintlike. From her moist mouth the smile had gone.
“Paul, wilt thou take this woman—”
The questions continued. At the demand, “Who giveth,” Mr. Mermex made a gesture. Though vague, it sufficed. The promises were exchanged. The troth was plighted. Bride and groom knelt and arose again.
“Those whom God hath joined,” the cleric continued, and, mumbling the phrases that follow, concluded with the finishing “Amen.”
“Let me congratulate you, Mrs. Usher.”
Abruptly the man of God had disappeared. It was the man of the world who was speaking now. Then, extending his hand to the husband, he was about to ask for the paper which the Bureau of Vital Statistics exacts, but Mr. Mermex gave him no time. He had the groom by the sleeve.
“I want to speak to you.”
“What about?” Usher asked.
“Come from here and I’ll tell you.”
With a hand still on that sleeve the father led the son-in-law from the room. In a moment the clergyman rustled and vanished. Marie had seated herself, Enever on one side, Mrs. Metuchen on the other.
Across the room Mrs. Usher mère had also seated herself. Mrs. Enever and Jones were sharing the charm of her talk.
“It is incredible,” she was announcing to both from behind a fan, “but I am not sure that anyone knows my son’s wife, that anyone knows
