She lay still, listening, wishing that the wedding were over, morbidly dreading the heat and crush and excitement which she knew awaited her and to which she felt utterly unequal.
A quarter of an hour passed, then impetuously, without preliminary, her door opened and Piers stood on the threshold. He had the light behind him, for Avery had lowered the blinds, and so seeing him she was conscious of a sudden thrill of admiration. For he stood before her like a prince. She had never seen him look more handsome, more patrician, more tragically like that woman in the picture-frame downstairs who smiled so perpetually upon them both.
He came to her with his light, athletic tread, stooped, and lifted her bodily in his arms. He held her a moment before he set her on her feet, and then in his hot, fierce way he kissed her.
"You beautiful ghost!" he said.
She leaned against him, breathing rather hard. "I wish—I wish we needn't go," she said.
"Why?" said Piers.
He held her to him, gazing down at her with his eyes of fiery possession that always made her close her own.
"Because—because it's so hot," she said quiveringly. "There will be no one I know there. And I—and I—"
"That's just why you are going," he broke in. "Don't you know it will be your introduction to the County? You've got to find your footing, Avery. I'm not going to have my wife overlooked by anyone."
"Oh, my dear," she said, with a faint laugh, "I don't care two straws about the County. They've seen me once already, most of them,—in a ditch and covered with mud. If they want to renew the acquaintance they can come and call."