Thursday came, and Monday was the wedding-day. The atmosphere was thick with new clothes, cards of invitation, presents, and congratulations. A thorny question had arisen as to whether George should be invited. Neaera’s decision was in his favour, and Gerald himself had written the note, hoping all the while that his cousin’s own good sense would keep him away.
“It would be hardly decent in him to come,” he said to his father.
“I daresay he will make some excuse,” answered Lord Tottlebury. “But I hope you won’t keep up the quarrel.”
“Keep up the quarrel! By Jove, father, I’m too happy to quarrel.”
“Gerald,” said Maud Neston, entering, “here’s such a funny letter for you! I wonder it ever reached.”
She held out a dirty envelope, and read the address—
“Mr. Nesston, Esq.,
“His Lordship Tottilberry,
“London.”
“Who in the world is it?” asked Maud, laughing.
Gerald had no secrets.