"And—and"—doubtfully—"you don't even—love her?"
"Will it make your mind entirely easy if I tell you that I—I care for someone else?" He blushed like a boy.
"Oh, Alan Farvel, I'm so glad! So glad!" Her gratitude was spontaneous. "And I wish you could marry! You deserve the very best kind of a wife!"
"You flatter me."
"Not at all! You're a good man. You'd make some girl very happy. I've always said, 'What a pity Mr. Farvel isn't a married man'—not knowing, of course, that you'd ever been one.—Could I trouble you to hand me that bouquet?"
"Certainly." Farvel picked up the bride's bouquet from where she had thrown it and gave it to her.
"Thank you. A moment ago, I found the perfume of it quite overpowering. But the blossoms are lovely, aren't they?—So you do care for someone? And"—she smiled in her best playfully teasing manner—"is the 'someone' a secret?"
"Well,——"
"Ah, you don't want to tell me! I'm an old lady, Mr. Farvel; I know how to keep a secret."
"Oh, I'm going to tell you. Though you're going to think very badly of me."