“A suite in a nice, quiet hotel,” said Andrée, “where I can have my piano.”
So there was nothing to prepare for this young bride, no house-linen to mark, no silver to buy. Even her trousseau she insisted upon buying ready-made. Her mother did sew a few little things for her, but she felt all the time, with every stitch, how superfluous they were. There was nothing required of her; she too was superfluous.
§ iii
They sat in the motor car, well wrapped in furs, holding each other’s gloved hands. In the corner was Lance, who was to give Andrée away, and facing them, Bertie and Edna. But the mother was not conscious of them; she felt quite alone in the world with her child.
They had left Gilbert in the most painful way. He couldn’t really believe that Andrée would so flout him; he had continued to hope that at the last moment she would capitulate, and he longed for that moment. He had never asked about the progress of the affair, and Claudine had said nothing until a few days before the wedding.
“Remember, Andrée,” he had said then, “if you do this outrageous, disgraceful thing, I’ll never see you or speak to you again.”
And the morning of that day he hadn’t gone to his office; he had remained in the dining-room, after breakfast, smoking and reading the newspaper. Claudine had come in to him.
“Gilbert!” she had said. “Gilbert! Please, please come to her wedding! No matter how you feel about it, she’s your own—”
“No!” he had cried. “I won’t sanction it! It’s altogether wrong, and I won’t countenance it! She’s marrying a vulgar, underbred cur who’s a disgrace to the family ... the first and only time I saw the fellow he insulted me grossly. She’s absolutely disregarded my authority. She’s doing this against my wishes, and she knows it!”
Through the open door of the dining-room he had seen Andrée come down the stairs, quite ready, with her hat on. He had gone out into the hall and stood looking at her, with a terrible twinge of pain.