"What is?"
"Wait and see!"
She waited rather apprehensively. She was a little nervous about surprises, since her father's recent effort in that line.
But the carriage was traversing a street she knew well, and it presently stopped in front of the house where Ellen lived. There was still a tinge of afterglow reflected in its many-paned windows, and among the young feathery leafage of the old sycamore sparrows were preparing to go to bed. Two or three of the denizens of the lower floors were taking a breath of air on the doorstep. They stared at the carriage with interest.
"None of 'em know about us yet," reassured Archie in a whisper. "Just bluff it out." Aloud he said to one of them (it was the lady who expertly curled feathers): "Do you know whether Mrs. Neal is in, Mrs. Higgs? We've come to see her."
"I don't know as she is, Mr. Archie," replied the other, her eyes taking avid note of Joan's smart tailor-made dress and traveling hat. "But I know she's expectin' company all right, 'cause I been smellin' comp'ny cookin' all day! Go right up and make yourselves to hum," she urged, with the never-failing hospitality of her class.
Archibald led his wife up the dim, curved stairway that had doubtless known the reluctant feet of many another bride before her, and opened Ellen's door with a key.
"Yon are honored," murmured Joan. "I didn't dream that Ellen had got to the point of trusting gentlemen with her latch-key!"
"Look!" said Archie proudly.
The room was gay with flowers, truly a bridal bower; and in its center stood the old round walnut table she had known all her life, much battered by the kicking of her own youthful toes, set for two, and laden with delicacies. There was a small but magnificent wedding-cake, there was chicken-salad, crisp pink tongue, pickles, chocolates of Joan's favorite brand, and resting in a pail of ice-water, its neck swathed in a napkin, a bottle of champagne.