An hour or so later he stood at the hotel door a moment awaiting
the cab that was to take him to the church. He was dressed in
the height of the fashion of the early fifties--very dark wine
broadcloth, the coat shaped tightly to the waist and adorned with
a silk velvet collar, a pale lavender, flowered satin waistcoat,
a dull white silk stock collar, a bell-shaped black silk hat. He
carried his gloves, for throughout his entire life he declared he
breathed through his hands, and the wearing of gloves was abhorrent
to him. Suddenly a gentleman accosted him with:
"I hear an Indian chief is in town. Going to be married here this
morning. Where is the ceremony to take place? Do you know anything
of it?"
Like all his race, George Mansion had a subtle sense of humor. It
seized upon him now.
"Certainly I know," he replied. "I happened to come down on the
boat with the chief. I intend to go to the wedding myself. I
understand the ceremony was arranged to be at the cathedral."
"Splendid!" said the gentleman. "And thank you, sir."
Just then the cab arrived. Young Mansion stepped hastily in, nodded
good-bye to his acquaintance, and smilingly said in an undertone to
the driver, "St. Swithin's Church--and quickly.
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