"A white muslin frock and a blue sash, I suppose," supplemented Rupert. "Hair worn long and tied with a blue bow rather bigger than an ordinary-sized sunshade. No shoes and no stockings, but some pale blue sandals over white lace socks. Result—ravishing!"
Chris glanced round for a missile, found none, so decided to ignore him.
"Yes," she said to her fiancé, "and we are going to carry bouquets of wheat and cornflowers."
"Sounds like the ingredients of a pudding," said Rupert.
Chris rose from the piano in disgust, and her brother instantly slipped into her place. "I say, Hilda," he called, "come and sing! There's no one to listen to you but me; but that's a detail. Trevor and Christina, pray consider yourselves excused."
"We don't want to be excused," said Chris mutinously "Do stop, Rupert!
Cinders doesn't like it."
Rupert, however, was already crashing through Mendelssohn's Wedding March, and turned a deaf ear. She picked the discontented one up to comfort him, and as she did so Trevor moved up to her. He stood beside her for a few seconds, stroking the dog's soft head.
Chris looked hot and uncomfortable, as if Rupert's music pounded on her nerves; but yet she would not make a move. She stood hushing Cinders as if he had been an infant.
"Shall we go outside?" Mordaunt said at last.
She shook her head.