"Oh, come, Carlotta, you don't mean to tell me you believe in a Hell!"
Didn't believe it where the lights was bright," she muttered, looking half-fearfully around, "but I'm not so sure—here."
"Well you'd better mosey along into the holy place—but hold on—to do it up brown, you ought to have a brat."
"If you keep on doin' a Joe Webber," she returned, "we might as well split. You don't seem to care at all—just stand there grinnin' like a rube at the circus, as if you was enjoyin' yourself."
"No, your most charming and amusing self," he amended. "But let 'em get spliced, we can cash in, after as well as before."
"All right, Benedick Arnstein, if you're goin' ta desert me in the pinch I'll do a little hittin' myself. Anyway, I'm not goin' to stand out here with that any longer. An' if I can't stop that weddin', I'll queer it—an that's somethin' after all."
Yes, it was something after all.
But now the organ notes, mellowing under Milly's skilful hand, floated out on the night air. From the vestry door the groom's party approached the altar, as the lovely vision, rather wraith than girl, passed up the aisle. A subdued hush settled on the pews, broken only by the soft susurrus of feminine whispers,— "Isn't she sweet?" "Isn't she lovely?" Then came the solemn pause—followed by the minister's voice, sonorous yet fittingly modulated, as he repeated the impressive words of the old, old rite, so beautiful
