“Yes. If she don’t pay the five thousand down after that, she’s no lady.”
“Which she is,” answered Ellen, with emphasis. “Why, the very last night, she, knowing what was between us, Mr. Mahone, gave me a white-silk dress, only twice worn, with real lace on the sleeves and bosom, and a wreath of white flowers, which she says are just as fashionable for brides as orange-blossoms, which she hasn’t had any use for as yet—more’s the shame to Mr. Ivon, who behaves as no gentleman has a right to.”
“Well, no one can say that we haven’t done our share. When will she pay over, my dear?” questioned Mahone, drawing Ellen tenderly toward him.
“Just as soon as we are married. I asked her, and she said that.”
“She did? Well, well! When will that be? With the wedding dress all ready, we might have it in the basement-parlor, within a week.”
“Oh, Mr. Mahone, think of it? I couldn’t. The cake—the invitations.”
“Hang the cake! and as for inform——I beg pardon, invitations; the genteel thing is a strictly private wedding.”
“A private wedding, and that dress? Such a silk! You could almost stand it alone!”
“Yes, yes, I know. But who does a bride dress for but her admiring husband? I shall worship you in that bridal robe and them flowers; but don’t ask me to share the beautiful sight with any other man. I couldn’t stand it, being that jealous.”
“Oh, Mr. Mahone, I had so set my heart upon it.”