“I think you knew,” said the lady. Stricken as I was I noted that she eyed him rather strangely, quite as if she felt some decent respect for him.
“Marriage is serious,” boomed the Mixer.
“Don’t blame her, don’t blame her—swear I don’t!” returned his lordship. “Few days to think it over—quite right, quite right. Got to know their own minds, my word!”
While their attention was thus mercifully diverted from me, my own world by painful degrees resumed its stability. I mean to say, I am not the fainting sort, but if I were, then I should have keeled over at my first sight of that journal. But now I merely recovered my glass of champagne and drained it. Rather pigged it a bit, I fancy. Badly needing a stimulant I was, to be sure.
They now discussed details: the ceremony—that sort of thing.
“Before a registrar, quickest way,” said his lordship.
“Nonsense! Church, of course!” rumbled the Mixer very arbitrarily.
“Quite so, then,” assented his lordship. “Get me the rector of the parish—a vicar, a curate, something of that sort.”
“Then the breakfast and reception,” suggested Mrs. Effie with a meaning glance at me before she turned to the lady. “Of course, dearest, your own tiny nest would never hold your host of friends——”
“I’ve never noticed,” said the other quickly. “It’s always seemed big enough,” she added in pensive tones and with downcast eyes.