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She turned as someone touched her arm—her brother George, who was “best man” to-day, and even her high spirits were checked by his worried expression.

“I say, Win, Roger hasn’t turned up yet. What on earth’s to be done?”

“Not turned up! Why, where is he? Haven’t you been with him?”

“No. When I got to Starr’s rooms he wasn’t there. He left a message that Sir Robert had ’phoned for him, and if he didn’t get back by one o’clock he’d come straight on to the church, but he’s not here.”

“Perhaps there’s a fog in Town too,” she suggested, with a backward glance at the Rembrandtesque scene outside, where the shaft of light from the open door shone weirdly on the watching faces. “He’ll come directly—he must! Where’s Mr. Starr?”

“Haven’t seen him.”

“Then they’re probably together, or he may be coming on with Sir Robert and Lady Rawson. They’re not here yet, are they? What on earth can Sir Robert have wanted him for this morning? Horribly inconsiderate of him! Goodness, here’s Grace! Have you told the vicar that Roger hasn’t come? Then you’d better do so.”