From the moment that the old black trunk was opened a suppressed excitement ran quivering through the house. Miss Proll, scorning fatigue, plied her needle after her regular workday with all the enthusiasm of a bride-elect. Her joys in the preparations softened Danilo, who had always expressed a contempt for her solitary state.
Then there was shopping to do of a trivial sort. It seemed that scarcely a day went by without a request from Miss Proll for some trifling but highly important reinforcement to the regular treasure-chest. Claire, slipping on her things to run down to the shops, felt the delicious thrill of a truant spendthrift.
"For myself," she said one day to Danilo, "I would much rather be married in just a street dress. But mother would be—"
"A street dress!" Danilo echoed, incredulously. "No, your mother is right! I am marrying a bride, remember!"
And she discovered that a wedding to Danilo meant everything the term implied—orange wreaths, and veils, and huge cakes ... and a feast. There was nothing colorless nor sophisticated about such a ceremony to him.
Meanwhile, Nellie Whitehead married Billy Holmes. Claire and Danilo were among those bidden to see the knot tied. It happened at the noon hour in the vestry of St. Luke's Church, and a score or more of relations and friends gathered about and sniffled during the performance. Claire, always moved by the sonorous solemnity of the Anglican Prayer-book, was really touched by it all, in spite of her Presbyterian training, and even Nellie Whitehead emerged from the ordeal tremulously. There followed the usual kissing of the bride and the Anglo-Saxon ignoring of the groom, a bit of half-hearted rice-throwing, and the thing was over. No feast, no rejoicing, no laughter.
Danilo was puzzled and disapproving.
"Why did they not say mass for the dead and be done with it?" he snorted.
Two days later he came in for dinner and announced:
"Now you shall see a real wedding!"