Never was fashionable St. Thomas’s so crowded, so brilliant, so athrill with the thrill that comes only with a long expected wedding in high places. Every seat in the large church was filled and the crowd stood five deep behind the last expensive pew.
Nervous, but adorable in his shy nervousness, Valentine Morley waited at the altar, his best man a little to one side of him. His heart leaped within him, but there was a scared feeling also that he had never experienced in France.
There was a great burst of music and the thrill of young voices leaping upwards to the vaulted roof, as Jessica Pomeroy and her retinue appeared at the head of the aisle. Stately the music became, and slow, and the procession started down the aisle.
A burst of gladness, a desire to shout in his joy, coursed through Val as he watched the bewildering picture of the girl who was to be Mrs. Valentine Morley, a girl and yet a woman as she glided down the aisle in solemn time to the music. The procession halted at the altar, and a slight perspiration broke out over Val when it occurred to him that perhaps his best man had forgotten the ring.
“Steady, old boy,” came the reassuring voice of the best man in his ear. “The filly’ll wait; don’t be afraid. No false starts, now.”
