Beyond the windows of the corridor, which had been left uncurtained because of the beauty of the night, the stiff Tudor garden with its fountains, which filled up the quadrangle, was gaily illuminated under a bright moon; and amid all the varied colour of lamps, drapery, dresses, faces, the antique heads ranged along the walls of the corridor--here Marcus Aurelius, there Trajan, there Seneca--and the marble sarcophagi which broke the line at intervals, stood in cold, whitish relief.
Marcella passed along on Aldous's arm, conscious that people were streaming into the corridor from all the rooms opening upon it, and that every eye was fixed upon her and her mother.

"Look, there she is," she heard in an excited girl's voice as they passed Lord Maxwell's library, now abandoned to the crowd like all the rest.

"Come, quick! There--I told you she was lovely!" Every now and then some old friend, man or woman, rose smiling from the seats along the side, and Aldous introduced his bride.
"On her dignity!" said an old hunting squire to his daughter when they had passed.

"Shy, no doubt--very natural! But nowadays girls, when they're shy, don't giggle and blush as they used to in _my_ young days; they look as if you meant to insult them, and they weren't going to allow it! Oh, very handsome--very handsome--of course.

But you can see she's advanced--peculiar--or what d'ye call it ?--woman's rights, I suppose, and all that kind of thing?
Like to see you go in for it, Nettie, eh!" "She's _awfully_ handsome," sighed his pink-cheeked, insignificant little daughter, still craning her neck to look--"very simply dressed too, except for those lovely pearls.