ONE sunny August afternoon saw those two charming sisters, the Miss Wryatts of Wratt-Wrothesley, in their favourite "living-room," a square antique hall, with windows of mediæval coloured glass and ancient black-oak panelling, busily discussing with their other sister, Mrs. Major, the never-ending subject of Bee's wedding on the morrow.
Bee was to be married from the old family home—of course! So the Miss Wryatts had said from the first. That she should be married from Virginia Villa was, in their opinion, a thing unthinkable. Not only every spare room in the house—and there were fewer than might have been expected from its size, since a large amount of space went to reception rooms—but also every available bed in the neighbourhood, had been long engaged for the use of relatives and friends.
Miss Wryatt was tall and meekly dignified, with the sweetest and serenest elderly face ever seen; and Miss Emma Wryatt was short and plump and full of life. Both resembled Mrs. Major in a certain air of distinguished composure; and both also resembled her in devotion to and admiration for Bee, only daughter of the one, only niece of the other two.
Everything was by this time in train for the morrow; all arrangements were made; and nothing remained to be done. The staff of old and capable servants knew their duties to perfection in any kind of function; so that really they needed little telling, though Miss Wryatt kept the reins in her own hands, and trusted nothing to chance. She had just been going through with her sisters the list of guests expected that afternoon, naming the bedroom assigned to each, and discussing plans for making the hours slide by with smoothness and satisfaction.
Mr. and Mrs. Royston, Robert, Magda, Merryl, and Frances; Mr. and Mrs. Framley, and Patricia Vincent; Mr. and Mrs. Miles; Ned Fairfax, and two or three others, would arrive before tea; and carriages had already been despatched to meet them at the station. Ivor had come the day before, and was now with Bee in the grounds.
"Dear Bee!" Miss Wryatt said affectionately. "She looks the very picture of happiness! It does one good to see her face. Well, dear—one thing is certain—you will be gaining a son and not losing a daughter. And such a son! I really do not know a finer fellow than Lance—such high principles! All that we could wish for our dear Bee. And there are not many men whom one could count worthy of her."
"Lance is all right," remarked Mrs. Major, who had no trace of sentimentality in her composition.
"Dear fellow! And he will be a fortunate man—with such a sweet wife. My dear, I am glad that poor girl, Patricia Vincent, has made up her mind to be present. Bee was afraid she would not."
"Bee refused to let her off."
"And of course it is wiser—still, one can well understand that it must be a trial to come among all her old friends. Such a lovely creature as she was! And now, I suppose—"