“Thank you, sir, in the name of our friends,” he said gravely, bowing to Dandy. “Then, gentlemen, fill up your glasses.”
The toast was honored. And no one felt more satisfied with himself and with all the world than did Dandy Quin.
Other toasts were offered and equally honored, Dandy taking a conspicuous part in every one.
It was twelve o’clock when the guests sat down to the table. It was two when they arose and withdrew to the drawing-room.
Then Judy went upstairs to change her light bridal dress for the heavy green cloth suit that was to defend her from the wintry winds of the open sea.
At her earnest request no one was to go down to the steamer to see them off.
“Because I shall behave badly. I know I shall. I shall cry. And it is so awful to cry in public!” said Judy.
All her effects had been packed and sent on the steamer, except the one little trunk into which her last belongings were to go, and which was to be put into the carriage with her.
So as soon as she was dressed for the departure—cloth suit, fur-lined cloak, beaver poke and all—she came down, into the drawing-room, where all her friends were assembled, and there she bade them all good-by. She kissed, embraced and wept over her friends, one after the other; but when she came to Mrs. Moseley she clung to her as if she could never leave her, weeping as if her heart would break.
At last it was that tender lady herself who gently unwound the girl’s arms from around her neck, and stooping, whispered: