“As often as you ask me.”
Before he had time to reply an obscure relative had begun to assure him of his wonderful fortune and of his eternal felicity.
He caught glimpses of Muriel’s white dress passing through the ranks of admiration, and then he found himself being led by the arm to the table where the champagne was being opened and a cricket friend of his, a married man, was adjuring him to take as much as possible. “You don’t know what you’re in for, old man.” And then Gerald was telling him that it was time he went upstairs to change, that Muriel had gone already.
“You’re really wonderful, old man,” Gerald said, when they were alone. “I can’t think how you did it. It’s cured me of ever wanting to get married.”
There were several telegrams lying on his dressing-table; he opened them and tossed them half read upon the floor. “Thank God I haven’t got to answer those,” he said. And while he changed into a gray tweed suit Gerald continued to perform what he considered to be the functions of a best man. He chattered about the service, the champagne, the wedding cake, the behavior of the guests. “And, I say, old son, who was that mighty topping girl in gray, with the large wine-colored hat?”
“That? Oh, that was April—April Curtis.”
“What! the girl that——”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
Gerald was momentarily overwhelmed. “Well, I must say I’m surprised,” he began. Then paused, realizing that as Roland had just married his sister it was hardly possible for him to draw any comparison between her and April. He contented himself with a highly colored compliment:
“A jolly pretty girl,” he said, “and she’ll be a beautiful woman.”