in love with even negative abstractions.

At any rate they were very fond of one another, and practised
wedding-goers were able to make their usual remark: "How utterly
devoted they seem! It is so nice to see them look at one another!"

Everybody said too, of course, that Helena had never looked so pretty.
She had been arranging presents until one o'clock and not left time to
get her hair in order, besides having been dog-tired for a week, and
the wedding-veil is seldom becoming, but all the guests seemed pleased.
Certainly, with bright eyes sparkling ever so gaily behind the old veil
of Argentan lace, and little wisps of hair exuding everywhere, Helena,
if not at her best, looked natural and young.

Hubert, on the other hand, looked old for his age and self-conscious as
only a man can look at his own wedding, but yet unusually handsome. He
had not recovered from the dismal farce of a bachelor dinner, where
nobody had liked the champagne, the idea of speeches had fizzled out,
and every one had gone home before ten o'clock. He was pale and
nervous. Yet Helena's relatives decided quite honestly, and in fact
unexpectedly, that he was a good-looking man, and even Helena was quite
surprised. His new Sunday coat revealed a slim, tall figure generally
hidden by old, well-loved tweeds, for he was not a London-dresser. A
stiff collar made the greatest change in him, and (had he but guessed!)
so soon she decided he must always wear one. His very agony improved
his looks. Of the dark, clear-cut type, he was spoilt usually by a too
erratic mouth, which rambled on his face and lent a look of weakness to
the stern contour. To-day his lips were pressed and firm. He felt a
fool and told himself that the whole business was astounding rubbish.
If only she had liked it, he would have been married at a
registrar's--or down in Devonshire!... He went about with an air of
doom among the revellers, and all of them said once again, if with more
truth than about Helena, that they had never seen him look so well.

"Only shows," whispered Mrs. Boyd, who did not love him or any author
over-much, "that those artistic people could easily look gentlemen.
It's nothing but a pose."

None the less, it was a genuine enough relief to Hubert when the time
came at which he was able to go upstairs and shed his fair raiment.
True, they were not his old tweeds that he was allowed to don, nor was
the collar soft; but still he felt more himself as