The bridegroom took his cigar from his mouth.
'The race?' he exclaimed. Then a rather thin smile came over his face.
He did not want to say anything about the flight to the church door.
'We got there together. At least she touched first, but I had my hand
on her shoulder.'
'What's this?' asked Gerald.
Birkin told him about the race of the bride and the bridegroom.
'H'm!' said Gerald, in disapproval. 'What made you late then?'
'Lupton would talk about the immortality of the soul,' said Birkin,
'and then he hadn't got a button-hook.'
'Oh God!' cried Marshall. 'The immortality of the soul on your wedding
day! Hadn't you got anything better to occupy your mind?'
'What's wrong with it?' asked the bridegroom, a clean-shaven naval man,
flushing sensitively.
'Sounds as if you were going to be executed instead of married. THE
IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL!' repeated the brother-in-law, with most
killing emphasis.
But he fell quite flat.
'And what did you decide?' asked Gerald, at once pricking up his ears
at the thought of a metaphysical discussion.
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