The day approached. Margaret had made her preparations. They were simple enough, wonderfully and strangely simple, seeing that the man she was going to marry was a viscount, and heir to one of the oldest coronets in England.
"Don't buy a lot of dresses, Madge," Blair had said. "We shall be going to Paris and Italy after Appleford, and you can buy anything you want at Paris, don't you know."
She gave notice to quit to her landlady, and wrote a line or two to some of her companions. She did not say that she was going to be married, but that she was going for a long stay in the country, and she did not add what part.
The morning—the wedding morning—was as bright and even brilliant as a real summer morning in England can be—when it likes; and the sun shone on the new traveling dress—which was to be her wedding dress as well—as bravely as if it had been white satin itself.
All the way down to Sefton, Blair looked at her with the loving, wistful admiration of a bridegroom, and seemed never tired of telling her that she was all that was beautiful and lovable.
Austin Ambrose had gone into a smoking carriage and left them to themselves, but when the train pulled up at Sefton he came to the door.
"Are we going to walk?" inquired Blair.
"No, there is a fly," said Austin, and he led them to it quietly and got them inside.
Blair laughed.
"Poor old Austin! Upon my word, I think he enjoys all this mystery! He'd make a first-rate conspirator, wouldn't he? I say, he was right about the place, though, wasn't he? It is dead and alive!"