“You are,” was his prompt and earnest agreement.
They trooped in at once to the breakfast table. The spacious room was wreathed with smilax and other vines—even to the great chandelier. The latter was so hidden by the decorations that it seemed overladen, and Tom Cameron, who had a quick eye, mentioned it to Ruth.
“Wonder if those fellows braced that thing with wires? Florists sometimes have more sense of art than common sense.”
“Hush, Tom! Nothing can happen to spoil this occasion. Isn’t it wonderful?”
But Tom Cameron looked at her rather gloomily. He shook his head slightly.
“I feel like one of those pictures of the starving children in Armenia. I’m standing on the outside, looking in.”
It is true that Ruth Fielding flushed, but she refused to make reply. A moment later, when Tom realized how the seating of the party had been arranged, his countenance showed even deeper gloom.
As best man Tom was directed to Jennie’s right hand. On the other side of Henri, Ruth was seated, and that placed her across the wide table from Tom Cameron.
The smiling maid of honor was well worth looking at, and Tom Cameron should have been content to focus his eyes upon her whenever he raised them from his plate; but for a particular reason he was not at all pleased.
This particular reason was the seating of another figure in military uniform next to Ruth on her other side. This was a tall, pink-cheeked, well set-up youth looking as though, like Tom, he had seen military service, and with an abundance of light hair above his broad brow. At school Chessleigh Copley had been nicknamed “Lasses” because of that crop of hair.