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“I’m afraid that won’t be very convenient, dear. Gilbert and I
are going to get the licence tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Tower threw up her hands in a gesture of dismay, but she
found nothing more to say.

The marriage took place at a registrar’s office. Mrs. Tower and
I were witnesses. Gilbert in a smart blue suit looked absurdly young
and he was obviously nervous. It is a trying moment for any man. But
Jane kept her admirable composure. She might have been in the habit
of marrying as frequently as a woman of fashion. Only a slight colour
on her cheeks suggested that beneath her calm was some faint
excitement. It is a thrilling moment for any woman. She wore a very
full dress of silver grey velvet, in the cut of which I recognized the
hand of the dressmaker in Liverpool (evidently a widow of
unimpeachable character), who had made her gowns for so many
years; but she had so far succumbed to the frivolity of the occasion as
to wear a large picture hat covered with blue ostrich feathers. Her
gold-rimmed spectacles made it extraordinarily grotesque. When the
ceremony was over the registrar (somewhat taken aback, I thought,
by the difference of age between the pair he was marrying) shook
hands with her, tendering his strictly official congratulations; and the
bridegroom, blushing slightly, kissed her. Mrs. Tower, resigned but
implacable, kissed her; and then the bride looked at me expectantly. It
was evidently fitting that I should kiss her too. I did. I confess that I
felt a little shy as we walked out of the registrar’s office past loungers
who waited cynically to see the bridal pairs, and it was with relief that
I stepped into Mrs. Tower’s car. We drove to Victoria Station, for the
happy couple were to go over to Paris by the two o’clock train, and
Jane had insisted that the wedding-breakfast should be eaten at the
station restaurant. She said it always made her nervous not to be on
the platform in good time. Mrs. Tower, present only from a strong
sense of family duty, was able to do little to make the party go off
well; she ate nothing (for which I could not blame her, since the food
was execrable, and anyway I hate champagne at luncheon) and talked
in a strained voice. But Jane went through the menu conscientiously.
“I always think one should make a hearty meal before starting
out on a journey,” she said.
We saw them off, and I drove Mrs. Tower back to her house.
“How long do you give it?” she said. “Six months?”