There were so many letters to be written, parcels to be unpacked, clothes to be tried on, and it was all so very important.
"That's my good little girl," said Philip, in a tone that expressed as much relief as though he had feared the outbreak of tears to be expected from a child disappointed of its treat.
Mrs. Hardinge was plain-spoken.
"Well, you'll see plenty of Nicholas after the wedding, and now you can get some of those letters off your mind, Lily. You can make them very short. Everybody knows that a bride never has time for long letters, and you simply must get everything finished up before the wedding."
Before the wedding—until the wedding—because of the wedding.
They all said that, in a frenzied sort of way which implied that the wedding was the final goal towards which Time itself was tending as to the ultimate bourne.
"After the wedding" was only alluded to as some remote period during which rest might obtain which must until then be utterly foregone. Lily's own imagination refused to entertain more than the crowding preoccupations of the present. She knew that she and Nicholas were going to Paris together, but all that she could realize was that by that time all the presents must be acknowledged, all the new frocks finished and packed up, and all the various business of the last few weeks finally accomplished.
The relief of it would be incalculable.
The last Saturday before the wedding-day brought Nicholas, but this time he stayed with the Hardinges. Lily saw him, alone, less than ever.
"Can't I see you in your wedding-dress, just for a minute?" he urged.