“Time, my dear, time,” cried Sir Mark jovially. “Come, Edie, aunt will be furious if you keep her any longer.”
Edie took his arm, but dropped it again to run and kiss her cousin once again. Then tripping to the old man’s side he led her down the broad staircase and across the hall, now pretty well thronged with visitors, and the servants in the background to see the departure.
A carriage was in waiting, with a tall, stern looking, grey lady inside.
“Late, Mark,” she said sharply. “Come Edie, my child, and let’s get it over.”
“You’re all alike,” said the admiral, as the bridesmaid took her place, the carriage started, and with head erect the old sailor strode back, seeing nobody, and went up to his room, to return soon after, amid a buzz of whispering, proudly leading down the bride.
“And only one bridesmaid,” whispered a lady visitor at the hotel.
“Young widow—very private affair—by the lady’s wish,” was whispered back loudly enough for Myra and her father to hear as they passed down the steps.
“Let them chatter,” said the old man to himself. “They haven’t seen such a bride for years.”
Quite a little crowd followed to the hotel door, there was a general waving of handkerchiefs, and one lady threw a bouquet of white roses as the carriage door was shut with a bang, the servant sprang up, and the next moment the admiral’s handsome pair of bays dashed off toward the great West End church.