"Miss Marks," she said, "I may want you by and by to take down several notes for me, letters to some of my most intimate friends, to be sent after—after the wedding. But at this particular instant I fancy there's nothing more for you to do, except—oh yes, do be very nice, and run down to the mail counter, or wherever in the hotel you can buy stamps."
As these instructions were being given, Zélie pencilled with incredible quickness a few words on a scrap of paper. This scrap she tucked up her sleeve, and a second or two later, as Garth opened the door for her to go out, she contrived to slip the paper into the hand on the knob.
"Now I'll call Mums," cried Marise, fearing to risk such a moment alone with this unclassified wild animal, soon to become her dummy husband. "Mums is not pleased, because I said I wanted a few words with you before she came in—though she'd be much crosser if she knew I'd let Miss Marks stay. You'll back me up with her, won't you, that my plan—ours, I mean—is the best?"
"I think," said Garth, "you don't need much backing from me with your mother, though if you do, I'll give it as well as I know how. But wait a second before she comes. I have a superstition. I ask that you won't be married in black."
"Oh! But I chose this dress on purpose!" The words escaped before she'd stopped to think.
Garth didn't flush. He was past that. He needed all his blood at his heart. "I supposed you did," he said. "All the same, don't wear it."
"But it's such a pretty dress—and hat. They're new. I like them—better than anything I've got."
"For this occasion! I understand."
"Are you—being sarcastic?" Marise hesitated.
"No-o. Only sincere. Why did you want to wear black to be married—to me?"