The only touch of joy, of festiveness, was that afforded by the choice blooms with which Mr.Wilding had smothered nave and choir and altar-rails.

Their perfume hung heavy as incense in the temple.
"Who giveth this woman to be married to this man ?" droned the parson's voice, and Wilding smiled defiantly a smile which seemed to answer him, "No man.

I have taken her for myself." Lord Gervase stood forward as her sponsor, and as in a dream Ruth felt her hand lying in Mr.Wilding's cool, firm grasp.
The ecclesiastic's voice droned on, his voice hanging like the hum of some great Insect upon the scented air.

It was accomplished, and they were welded each to the other until death should part them.
Down the festooned nave she came on his arm, her step unfaltering, her face calm; black misery in her heart.

Behind followed her aunt and cousin and Lord Gervase.