One of the lads gave the other a shove that identified
the bridegroom. The girl was holding her left hand up and staring
at her new ring. A pessimist might have seen a portent in the
cynical amusement of her smile, and another in the aweless speed
with which Gilfoyle and Kedzie hustled toward the awful mystery
of such a union as marriage attempts.
The wedlock-factory was busy. In spite of the earliness of the hour
the waiting-room was crowded, its benches full. The only place for
Kedzie to sit was next to a couple of negroes, the man in Ethiopian
foppery grinning up into the face of a woman who held his hat and
cane, and simpered in ebony.
Kedzie whispered to Gilfoyle her displeased surprise:
"Why, they act just like we do."
Kedzie liked to use _like_ like that. She felt belittled at
sharing with such people an emotion that seemed to her far too good
for them. Also she felt that the emotion itself was cheapened by
such company. She wished she had not consented to the marriage. But
it would excite attention to back out now, and the dollar already
invested would be wasted. For all she knew, the purchase of the
license compelled the completion of the project.
A group of Italians came from Room 365--two girls in white, a
bareheaded mother who had been weeping, a fat and relieved-looking
father, an insignificant youth who was unquestionably the new-born
husband.
Gilfoyle kept looking at his watch, but he had to wait his turn.
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