Proud as she was, naturally, the term did not humiliate her in connection with Lawrence. Let a woman be ever so haughty, she is ready to be the slave of the man she loves.
Miss Ponsonby arrived in time to arrange the wreath and veil, and was so charmed with the effect that she said, with honest admiration:
“It is a shame of you to have such a quiet wedding, Gwendolyn. I should like all London to see and approve.”
“And I am so altered,” answered the bride, with a tender blush and smile, “that I don’t care for any one’s admiration now except Lawrence’s.”
“You are civil, my dear, certainly,” laughed the Honorable Beatrice.
“Oh! I didn’t mean you, of course, dear. I am glad of your approval; but, then, I always make sure of that.”
“And of somebody else’s, too, I fancy.”
Lady Gwendolyn put her arms round her friend’s neck with the impulsiveness that is always so attractive.
“Beatrice,” she said, with tears of happiness trembling on her black lashes, “I love Lawrence with all my heart, and I would rather be his wife than queen of twenty kingdoms!”
Then she glanced at the clock, and, seeing it wanted only a quarter to ten, began to mold on her gloves.