True, that would be the magnificent climax; but they knew it would also dissipate the spell--after the wedding, life in twentieth century America again.
"If only it don't rain!" said Harry Legendre.
"It won't," replied Theresa with conviction--and her look of command toward the heavens made the courtiers exchange winks and smiles behind her back.

They were courtiers to wealth, not to Theresa, just as their European prototypes are awed before a "king's most excellent Majesty," not before his swollen body and shrunken brain.
And it did not rain.

Ross arrived in the red sunset of the wedding eve, Tom Glenning, his best man, coming with him.

They were put, with the ushers, in rooms at the pavilion where were the squash courts and winter tennis courts and the swimming baths.

Theresa and Ross stood on the front porch alone in the moonlight, looking out over the enchantment-like scene into which the florists and decorators had transformed the terraces and gardens.