We leave the vestry at last.
The sky, cloudy since the morning, has darkened while we have been in the church, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily.

The idlers outside stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as we pass through their ranks and hasten into our carriage.

No cheering; no sunshine; no flowers strewn in our path; no grand breakfast; no genial speeches; no bridesmaids; no fathers or mother's blessing.

A dreary wedding--there is no denying it--and (if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as well! A _coup_ has been reserved for us at the railway station.

The attentive porter, on the look-out for his fee pulls down the blinds over the side windows of the carriage, and shuts out all prying eyes in that way.
After what seems to be an interminable delay the train starts.