“Yes; to Bobby, you know.”
The newly-made bride sat down suddenly, and threw a quick look at her husband.
“To Bobby!” she exclaimed. “Why, when—where—Bobby wasn’t here.”
“No,” smiled Margaret. “He said he wasn’t invited, but he came. We fixed it all up a little while ago. We’re going to London and Paris and Egypt and see the Alps.”
CHAPTER XII
The great dining-room at Hilcrest, the old Spencer homestead, was perhaps the pleasantest room in the house. The house itself crowned the highest hill that overlooked the town, and its dining-room windows and the veranda without, commanded a view of the river for miles, just where the valley was the greenest and the most beautiful. On the other side of the veranda which ran around three sides of the house, one might see the town with its myriad roofs and tall chimneys; but although these same tall chimneys represented the wealth that made possible the great Spencer estate, yet it was the side of the veranda overlooking the green valley that was the most popular with the family. It was said, to be sure, that old Jacob Spencer, who built the house, and who laid the foundations for the Spencer millions, had preferred the side that overlooked the town; and that he spent long hours gloating over the visible results of his thrift and enterprise. But old Jacob was dead now, and his son’s sons reigned instead; and his son’s sons, no matter how much they might value the whiz and whir and smoke of the town, preferred, when at rest, to gaze upon green hills and far-reaching meadows. This was, indeed, typical of the Spencer code—the farther away they could get from the oil that made the machinery of life run easily and noiselessly, the better pleased they were.
The dining-room looked particularly pleasant this July evening. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains at the open windows, and the setting sun peeped through the vines outside and glistened on the old family plate. Three generations of Spencers looked down from the walls on the two men and the woman sitting at the great mahogany table. The two men and the woman, however, were not looking at the sunlight, the vines, or the swaying curtains; they were looking at each other, and their eyes were troubled and questioning.
“You say she is coming next week?” asked the younger man, glancing at the letter in the other’s hand.
“Yes. Tuesday afternoon.”
“But, Frank, this is so—sudden,” remonstrated the young fellow, laughing a little as he uttered the trite phrase. “How does it happen that I’ve heard so little of this young lady who is to be so unceremoniously dropped into our midst next Tuesday?”