* * * * *
Now of what use to write of the days that followed--the stiff
restrained days--or of the arrival of Tom Underdown and his sister, and
Millicent Hardcastle--or of the splendid Russian ceremonies in the
church or the quieter ones at the Embassy. All that it concerns us to
know is that Gritzko and Tamara were at last alone on this their
wedding night. Alone with all their future before them. Both their
faces had been grave and solemn through all the vows and prayers, but
afterward his had shone with a wild triumph. And as they had driven to
his house on the Fontonka he had held Tamara's hand but had not spoken.
It was a strange eventful moment when he led her up the great stairs
between the rows of bowing servants--up into the salons all decorated
with flowers. Then, still never speaking, he opened the ballroom doors,
and when they had walked its great length and came to the rooms
beyond, he merely said:
"These you must have done by that man in Paris--or how you please," as
though the matter were aloof, and did not interest him. And then
instead of turning into his own sitting-room, he opened a door on the
right, which Tamara did not know, and they entered what had been his
mother's bedroom. It was warmed and lit, but it wore that strange air
of gloom and melancholy which untenanted rooms, consecrated to the
memory of the dead, always have, in spite of blue satin and bright
gilding.
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