To the girl who opened the door Larry stated his errand; that he had come to get an account of the wedding.
“Come in,” said the servant, a good-natured-looking Irish girl. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“You mean just now?”
“Yes, when you fell,” and she began to laugh at Larry.
“Oh,” said the reporter, blushing at the remembrance of his fall, “no, I guess not. Did you see me?”
“I was at the window,” said the girl. “I couldn’t help laughing, you went down so sudden.”
“Well, I didn’t get a letter or a telegram to say it was about to happen, that’s a fact,” admitted Larry, joining in the girl’s merriment.
“Come in,” said the maid; “none of the family is up yet, but I guess Miss Clarice will soon be down, and she’ll give you all the particulars. It was a sweet wedding, to be sure, and the bride looked lovely.”
“Um,” grunted Larry, beneath his breath. He was not particularly fond of lovely brides. He was shown into a large parlor, back of which was a drawing-room, and both apartments bore evidences of the previous night’s gayeties. Flowers were strewn about the floor, and there was rice over everything, while a number of old shoes were in one corner.
“We haven’t cleaned up yet,” the girl said. “It was three o’clock when we got to bed.”