Odalite, sitting back in an easy chair, seemed languid and indifferent to what was going on before her.
“Is that the wedding dress?” inquired Wynnette, when the elegant structure was laid out at length upon the bed, the train hanging from the foot far down on the carpet.
“Yes, that is the wedding dress. What do you think of it? Is it not beautiful?” inquired Mrs. Force, gazing admiringly on the bridal robes.
“No! I think it is horrid! Perfectly horrid! I wouldn’t wear it if I were Odalite!” exclaimed Wynnette, turning her back on the finery, and going straight up to where her sister sat alone in her sadness.
Disregarding the presence of others in the room, the impetuous little lady struck at once into the middle of her subject.
“Odalite! It is not true—it cannot be true—that you are going to throw over your own dear true love—our own darling Le, whom we have known all our lives—just to marry that foreign beat, whom nobody knows anything about—I mean that British colonel, who is almost a stranger to us?”
Wynnette was terrified at the result of her question.
Odalite bent forward, threw her arms around her sister’s neck, and burst into a storm of sobs and tears.
Mrs. Force wisely forbore to interfere.
The colored woman looked on philosophically. She had seen hysterical brides before now.