In the home of Bertram's brother Cyril, Cyril himself was at the piano, but where his thoughts were was plain to be seen--or rather, heard; for from under his fingers there came the Lohengrin wedding march until all the room seemed filled with the scent of orange blossoms, the mistiness of floating veils, and the echoing peals of far-away organs heralding the "Fair Bride and Groom." Over by the table in the glowing circle of the shaded lamp, sat Marie, Cyril's wife, a dainty sewing-basket by her side.

Her hands, however, lay idly across the stocking in her lap.
As the music ceased, she drew a long sigh.
What a perfectly beautiful wedding that was! she breathed.
Cyril whirled about on the piano stool.
"It was a very sensible wedding," he said with emphasis.
"They looked so happy--both of them," went on Marie, dreamily; "so--so sort of above and beyond everything about them, as if nothing ever, ever could trouble them--_now_." Cyril lifted his eyebrows.
"Humph! Well, as I said before, it was a very _sensible_ wedding," he declared.
This time Marie noticed the emphasis.

She laughed, though her eyes looked a little troubled.
"I know, dear, of course, what you mean.

_I_ thought our wedding was beautiful; but I would have made it simpler if I'd realized in time how you--you--" "How I abhorred pink teas and purple pageants," he finished for her, with a frowning smile.

"Oh, well, I stood it--for the sake of what it brought me." His face showed now only the smile; the frown had vanished.
For a man known for years to his friends as a "hater of women and all other confusion," Cyril Henshaw was looking remarkably well-pleased with himself.
His wife of less than a year colored as she met his gaze.