Then, dismissing Quentin from her mind, she sat down to dream of the
one great event in her life--this wonderful, glorious wedding in old
St. Gudule's. Already her trousseau was on a fair way to completion.
She gave no thought to the fortune that these gowns were to cost,
she considered not the glories she was to reap by becoming a real
princess, she dwelt not on the future before her, for she knew she
was to be happy with Ugo. Instead, she dreamed only of the "color
scheme" that was to make memorable her wedding procession.

In her mind's eye she saw the great church thronged with the most
brilliant, illustrious assemblage it had ever held (she was quite
sure no previous gathering could have been more august), and a smile
of pride came to her lips. The great chorus, the procession, the
lights, the incomprehensible combination of colors, the chancel, the
flowers, her wedding gown, and Ugo's dark, glowing face rushed in
and out of her vision as she leaned back in her chair and--almost
forgot to breathe. The thought of Ugo grew and grew; she closed her
eyes and saw him at her side as they walked proudly from the altar
with the good bishop's blessing and the song of the choir in their
ears, the swelling of love in their souls. So vivid became the dream
of his presence that she could almost feel his hand touching hers:
she felt her eyes turn toward him, with all that great crowd
watching, and her heart quivered with passion as his dark, happy
eyes burnt through to her very soul. Somehow she heard distinctly
the whisper, "My wife!"

Suddenly a strange chill came over this idle, happy dream, and she
opened her eyes with a start, Ugo's face fading away like a flash.
The thought had rushed in like a stab from a dagger. Would Philip