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course, it had been wrong to have been so aware, on that second hot July afternoon, of the contrast between Clive’s elect and his bride rejected. There sat Celia—his affinity in type and tradition, whatever Hester might be by the dark forces of the blood—with her unflawed gentleness, her unflawed dignity, ethereal in pearly greys and whites; while Hester in her black and red, with dust upon her shoulders, was, she knew, conscious of the contrast, and only just escaped sulkiness by being surly. And, as they moved to the tea-table, she had asked her—prompted, perhaps, by malicious subconscious forces of which she was only now aware: ‘What are you going to wear, Hester?’

Hester, after her wont, had taken off her hat and, dropping into the seat that Clive placed for her, passing her hand over her hair, she looked across the table at her mother-in-law-to-be, her chin a little dropped, as though not understanding, or not wishing to understand, the question.

‘For your wedding?’ Monica had smiled, perhaps too radiantly. ‘There is nothing so lovely as white satin, is there?—And I have an old lace veil of my great-grandmother’s that has been waiting since my wedding for a bride in the family.’ She had perhaps meant it kindly; really kindly; she had certainly