been going on busily. A studio apartment had been found in Chelsea; the five hundred pounds' worth of furniture had been bought and charged to the Archdeacon and installed; the bride's clothes had all come home; the banns had been put up; the presents had been received; the invitations had been issued; the Press and the police had been notified—in short, there was nothing more for Chloë and Dunkle to do but to get married. So married they got.
The only cloud on the brightness of the occasion was the appalling lumbago which kept the bride's father in bed and from which he was miraculously delivered that same evening.
There was no honeymoon. None of that kind of soupy nonsense for Chloë and Dunkle. They were married, went back to the Vicarage, drank a glass of champagne
