“And your mother?”
“She must endure what I endure.”
“Somewhere Baedeker says that the Bois de la Cambre is the finest park in Brussels,” said he, his eyes gleaming.
“I am quite sure Baedeker is reliable,” she agreed, with a smile.
“At three o'clock to-morrow afternoon, then, I will come for you. Will you remember me to your mother and tell her I am sorry not to see her to-day? Good-bye!”
She followed him to the door, and when he sped lightly down the steps there was a broad smile on the face of each. He turned and both laughed outright. “Where there's a will, there's a way,” she mused, as she went to her room upstairs. An hour later her daily letter to the prince was ready for the post. The only allusion to the visitor of the morning was: “Mr. Quentin—our New York friend, you will remember—made us a brief call this morning. He is quite undecided as to the length of his stay here, but I hope you will be here to see him.”
Then, dismissing Quentin from her mind, she sat down to dream of the one great event in her life—this wonderful, glorious wedding in old St. Gudule's. Already her trousseau was on a fair way to completion. She gave no thought to the fortune that these gowns were to cost, she considered not the glories she was to reap by becoming a real princess, she dwelt not on the future before her, for she knew she was to be happy with Ugo. Instead, she dreamed only of the “color scheme” that was to make memorable her wedding procession.
In her mind's eye she saw the great church thronged with the most brilliant, illustrious assemblage it had ever held (she was quite sure no previous gathering could have been more august), and a smile of pride came to her lips. The great chorus, the procession, the lights, the incomprehensible combination of colors, the chancel, the flowers, her wedding gown, and Ugo's dark, glowing face rushed in and out of her vision as she leaned back in her chair and—almost forgot to breathe. The thought of Ugo grew and grew; she closed her eyes and saw him at her side as they walked proudly from the altar with the good bishop's blessing and the song of the choir in their ears, the swelling of love in their souls. So vivid became the dream of his presence that she could almost feel his hand touching hers: she felt her eyes turn toward him, with all that great crowd watching, and her heart quivered with passion as his dark, happy eyes burnt through to her very soul. Somehow she heard distinctly the whisper, “My wife!”
Suddenly a strange chill came over this idle, happy dream, and she opened her eyes with a start, Ugo's face fading away like a flash. The thought had rushed in like a stab from a dagger. Would Philip Quentin be there, and would he care? Would he care?