local leaders of society were asked to prepare themselves a wedding
garment. They stitched away all the more cunningly on that account.
Judged by the standards of the _Ladies' Galaxy_, their gowns were
models of the mode. Viewed even in the uncritical eyes of the visiting
clergy, they were, as has been said, unusual.

Aside from gowns, the reception was chiefly notable for its cake; not
cakes, but solid loaves made up in layers with oozy sweetnesses
sandwiched in between. Served with neither forks nor napkins, it gave
rise to complications; but it was none the less appreciated upon that
account. There were two kinds of lemonade, too, one plain, one mixed
with home-brewed grape juice. In all surety, Catia's wedding reception
left nothing lacking on the score of elegance. Later, her satisfaction
was obvious in her shining eyes, as she halted, half-way down the front
stairs, to look upon her guests. The reception was nearing its end, for
Catia was now dressed for going away, and topped with a hat which
combined the more essential characteristics of the helmet of the
British grenadier and a mascot upon a Princeton football field. Indeed,
it was almost as rigid in its outlines as was the smile which creased
its wearer's lips. Catia was not unimpressive in her new dignity of
wifehood; but the dignity bore traces of diligent rehearsal, and left
singularly little to the imagination. By her side, Scott, looking down
upon his fellow townsmen, wore the self-conscious smirk of a sheepish
schoolboy; and the best of his fellow townsmen respected him the more
on that account. Catia was the more impressive of the two, they told
themselves; but there was no especial sense in a pair of young things
like these, trying to act as if their getting married were a mere fact
of every-day routine.

Smiling steadily, Catia stood there, waiting until, by very force of
motionless persistence, she had focussed every eye upon her person.
Then, according to the mandates of the _Ladies' Galaxy_, she hurled her
bridal bouquet down across the banister, not upon the waiting Eva Saint
Clair Andrews who hankered for it lustily, but straight against the
manly waistcoat of the least and the pinkest one of the visiting
clergy, a youth of twenty-five or six who had reluctantly torn himself
away from an anxious wife and a croupy baby, on purpose to be on hand
at Brenton's wedding. Mercifully for Catia's poise, her young husband
forebore explaining to her the r