“No, my son,” said the Bishop slowly—and everybody always listened when the Bishop spoke: “It is Anthony and Juliet Robeson—and that makes all the difference. I think two happier young people I never married. And may God be with them.”
The best man said that he and the maid-of-honour would walk the half-mile to the station. The son of the Bishop and the sister of the best man had already taken this course without saying anything about it. Nearly everybody murmured something about it being a lovely evening and a glorious sunset and a charming road, and, pairing off advisedly, adopted the same plan. The Bishop and Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Dingley and Mr. Marcy decided on being driven over to the station in a light surrey provided for this anticipated emergency.
The best man and the maid-of-honour succeeded in dropping behind the rest of the pedestrians. Their friends were used to that, and let them mercifully alone.
“Mighty pretty affair,” observed Carey in a melancholy tone.
“Yes—in its way,” admitted Judith Dearborn with apparent reluctance.
“Cosy house.”
“Very.”
“Tony seemed happy.”
“Ecstatic.” Judith’s inflection was peculiar.
“Nobody would have suspected Juliet of feeling blue about living off here.”