Richmond beamed and wrung his hand.
“And as we want to get to London for the end of the season,” continued Peter, “we’d like to be married the last of next month.”
“No objection—none whatever,” said Richmond.
“I’m not sure,” said Beatrice, all this time inscrutably calm. “I’ll have to talk with mother first. It’s not easy to get together the clothes in such a little time.”
“Nonsense,” cried Richmond. “There’s the cable.”
“And you’ll want most of the things sent to you in London,” suggested Peter.
Beatrice shrugged her shoulders. “Just as mamma says.” And she strolled over to the tea table and cut herself a slice of layer cake, which she proceeded to eat with much deliberation and enjoyment.
The two men stood together observing her. Up came Mrs. Martini, slim and willowy and dressed in the extreme of the skin-tight fashions of that year. “What are you two looking so gloomy about?” inquired she.
Richmond scowled. “Gloomy?” said he, with a disagreeable laugh. “We feel anything but gloomy. That is—er—of course my feelings are somewhat confused. I’ve just learned that Peter’s going to take Beatrice away from me the end of next month.”
Peter’s smile in response to Mrs. Martini’s effusive congratulations was sickly, was with difficulty kept alive long enough to meet the requirements of conventionality.