Heaven grant that he might read no
journalistic description of the ceremony! Few things more disgusted
him than the thought of a fashionable wedding; he could see nothing
in it but profanation and indecency. That mattered little, to be
sure, in the case of ordinary people, who were born, and lived, and
died, in fashionable routine, anxious only to exhibit themselves at
any given moment in the way held to be good form; but it was hard to
think that custom's tyranny should lay its foul hand on Irene
Derwent. Perhaps her future husband meant no such thing, and would
arrange it all with quiet becomingness. Certainly her father would
not favour the tawdry and the vulgar.
No date was announced. Paragraphs said merely that it would be
"before the end of the year."
After all, his day amid the fields was spoilt. He had allowed his
mind to stray in the forbidden direction, and the seeming quiet to
which he had attained was overthrown once more. Heavily he moved
towards the wayside station, and drearily he waited for the train
that was to take him back to his meaningless toil and strife.
In the compartment he entered, an empty one, some passenger had left
a weekly periodical; Piers seized upon it gladly, and read to
distract his thoughts. One article interested him; it was on the
subject of national characteristics: cleverly written, what is
called "smart" journalism, with grip and epigram, with hint of
universal knowledge and the true air of British superiority.
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