Mrs. Hartwell laughed again, her amused eyes on Marie's face.
“Dear me, child! don't you know that if men had their way, they'd—well, if men married men there'd never be such a thing in the world as a shower bouquet or a piece of wedding cake!”
There was no reply. A little precipitately Marie turned and hurried away. A moment later she was laying a restraining hand on Billy, who was filling tall vases with superb long-stemmed roses in the kitchen.
“Billy, please,” she panted, “couldn't we do without those? Couldn't we send them to some—some hospital?—and the wedding cake, too, and—”
“The wedding cake—to some hospital!”
“No, of course not—to the hospital. It would make them sick to eat it, wouldn't it?” That there was no shadow of a smile on Marie's face showed how desperate, indeed, was her state of mind. “I only meant that I didn't want them myself, nor the shower bouquet, nor the rooms darkened, nor little Kate as the flower girl—and would you mind very much if I asked you not to be my maid of honor?”
“Marie!”
Marie covered her face with her hands then and began to sob brokenly; so there was nothing for Billy to do but to take her into her arms with soothing little murmurs and pettings. By degrees, then, the whole story came out.
Billy almost laughed—but she almost cried, too. Then she said:
“Dearie, I don't believe Cyril feels or acts half so bad as Bertram and Kate make out, and, anyhow, if he did, it's too late now to—to send the wedding cake to the hospital, or make any other of the little changes you suggest.” Billy's lips puckered into a half-smile, but her eyes were grave. “Besides, there are your music pupils trimming the living-room this minute with evergreen, there's little Kate making her flower-girl wreath, and Mrs. Hartwell stacking cake boxes in the hall, to say nothing of Rosa gloating over the best china in the dining-room, and Aunt Hannah putting purple bows into the new lace cap she's counting on wearing. Only think how disappointed they'd all be if I should say: 'Never mind—stop that. Marie's just going to have a minister. No fuss, no feathers!' Why, dearie, even the roses are hanging their heads for grief,” she went on mistily, lifting with gentle fingers one of the full-petalled pink beauties near her. “Besides, there's your—guests.”