On departing, each guest had rapturously pronounced the whole thing a success. So did the host and hostess later on—when they had counted and compared the value of the gifts with the cost of the entertainment.
When they discovered that the presents would figure up twice over the cost of the reception, they retired to their sleeping rooms elate with the consciousness of having discharged many social obligations, and their duty to themselves.
“You’re a dandy, Genesy, and no mistake,” ejaculated the Mayor, with admiration. “You were dead right, but I had no idea it would pan out like this,” and her husband playfully tweaked the golden curl that fell so prettily over the lady’s brow.
“Gump!” and the lovely Imogene laughed in the same high soprano that belonged to the “Yards.” She tossed her head, and made a little snatch at the Mayor.
Then Mr. Vanderhook himself laughed loudly as he dodged the blow, for he was still holding the golden curl in his hand.
“You’re an It,” and, playfully recapturing her curl and pinning it to the cushion, Imogene went on with the inventory of the gifts and criticisms of their guests.
It was not so much what they said, but it was the fond and familiar tone of their delicate joshing that indicated a still unbroken confidence between husband and wife.
But strange is the play of fate. Strange indeed, that in the supreme moments of human pride and vanity and self-satisfaction the “mills of the gods” begin to get in their work.
Wise the provision of nature which denies us foreknowledge of tomorrow’s disasters, penalties and retributions.