I am standing before the altar--the altar smothered in flowers.
The old vicar who christened me is to marry me.

I have declined the intervention of all strange bishops and curates whatsoever.

He is a clergyman of the old school, and spares us not a word of the ritual.
Truly in no squeamish age was the marriage-service composed! I know--that is, I could have told you if you had asked me--that I am standing beside a large and stately person, to whom, if neither God nor man interpose to prevent it, I shall, within five minutes, be lawfully wed; but I do not in the least degree realize it.
Now and again a strong sense of the ludicrous rushes over me.

There seems to me something acutely ridiculous in the idea of myself standing here, so finely dressed--of the boys, demure and prim in their tall hats and Sunday coats, gathered to see _me_ married--_me_ of all people! Like lightning-flash there darts into my head the recollection of the _last time that I was married_! when, long ago we were little children, one wet Sunday afternoon, for want of a job, I had espoused Bobby; and Algy, standing on a chair, with his night-gown on for a surplice, had married us.

It is over now.