“Mrs. Hartwell!”
At the look of dismayed terror that came into Marie's face, Mrs. Hartwell laughed reassuringly.
“There, there, dear child, don't look so horror-stricken. There probably never was a man yet who wouldn't have fled from the wedding part of his marriage if he could; and you know how Cyril hates fuss and feathers. The wonder to me is that he's stood it as long as he has. I thought I saw it coming, last night at the rehearsal—and now I know I did.”
Marie still looked distressed.
“But he never said—I thought—” She stopped helplessly.
“Of course he didn't, child. He never said anything but that he loved you, and he never thought anything but that you were going to be his. Men never do—till the wedding day. Then they never think of anything but a place to run,” she finished laughingly, as she began to arrange on a stand the quantity of little white boxes waiting for her.
“But if he'd told me—in time, I wouldn't have had a thing—but the minister,” faltered Marie.
“And when you think so much of a pretty wedding, too? Nonsense! It isn't good for a man, to give up to his whims like that!”
Marie's cheeks grew a deeper pink. Her nostrils dilated a little.
“It wouldn't be a 'whim,' Mrs. Hartwell, and I should be glad to give up,” she said with decision.