rushed.

But over their late luncheon, in a roadside inn, the talk fell
into deeper grooves, their letters, their loneliness, and their
new plans, and when the car at last reached the traffic of the big
bridge, and Rachael caught her first glimpse of the city under its
thousand smoking chimneys, there had entered into their
relationship a new sacred element, something infinitely tender and
almost sad, a dependence upon each other, a oneness in which
Rachael could get a foretaste of the exquisite communion so soon
to be.

They were spinning up the avenue, through a city humming with the
first reviving breath of winter. They were at the great hotel, and
Rachael was laughing in Elinor Vanderwall's embrace. The linen
shop, the milliner, a dinner absurdly happy, and one of the new
plays--a sunshiny morning when she and Elinor breakfasted in their
rooms, and opened box after box of gowns and hats--the hours fled
by like a dream.

"Nervous, Rachael?" asked Miss Vanderwall of the vision that
looked out from Rachael's mirror.

"Not a bit!" the wife-to-be answered, feeling as she said it that
her hands, busy with long gloves, were shaking, and her knees
almost unready to support her.

"It must be wonderful to marry a man like Greg," said the
bridesmaid thoughtfully. "He simply IS everything and HAS
everything--"