“Yes, Aunt Hannah, I'll come; besides”—she glanced at Bertram mischievously—“I shall need all the time I've got to prepare for—my wedding.”
“Your wedding! You mean it'll be before—October?” Aunt Hannah glanced from one to the other uncertainly. Something in their smiling faces sent a quick suspicion to her eyes.
“Yes,” nodded Billy, demurely. “It's next Tuesday, you see.”
“Next Tuesday! But that's only a week away,” gasped Aunt Hannah.
“Yes, a week.”
“But, child, your trousseau—the wedding—the—the—a week!” Aunt Hannah could not articulate further.
“Yes, I know; that is a good while,” cut in Bertram, airily. “We wanted it to-morrow, but we had to wait, on account of the new license law. Otherwise it wouldn't have been so long, and—”
But Aunt Hannah was gone. With a low-breathed “Long! Oh, my grief and conscience—William!” she had fled through the hall door.
“Well, it is long,” maintained Bertram, with tender eyes, as he reached out his hand to say good-night.