"Yes."
"Whose?"
"Guess."
"I can't. You must tell me immediately. I am dying to know," answered Marion, brightening considerably.
"It is mine."
"You horrid creature," said Marion, sitting up and hurling one of the sofa cushions at Florence.
"That is a novel way to treat a friend at such a time," Florence said as she dodged the pillow.
"You are an awful girl not to tell me before. How could you be in the house since yesterday and not say anything? I suppose Harold Wainwright is the man, but I don't much care who he is. You are a provoking creature," and she emphasized her remarks by throwing another cushion which hit wide of the mark, and sent some books spinning off the library table onto the floor.
Marion was over her depression now, and, jumping up, she threw her arms about Florence and kissed her, saying: "Sit down, dear, and tell me all about it. When did it happen? When is it going to be announced? When are you going to be married? I always felt you would marry him. Who are you going to have for bridesmaids?"
Florence laughed at Marion's multitude of questions. "You dear girl," she said, kissing her, "I am glad I made you smile again; but I can answer only one of those questions. It happened last Sunday at Fairville."