“How about Boris?” she inquired. “You are a little fool not to become a princess.”
I ignored this remark and continued, “Ricci is going to sing and St. Laurent will be at the organ and—” I found I was addressing an empty chair, for my relative had stalked off once more.
The next opportunity another bolt was shot at her. “My wedding dress is ordered, and it’s a beauty! The veil will be four yards—”
“Porter!” shouted Aunt, and as that coffee-colored individual stopped short, she started him on a long explanation of the route ahead of us, while I withdrew, baffled and brooding, to re-read your letters. How am I going to bring my guardian around finally?
Later I began again, “I think the reception at the house after the ceremony should not be very large,” this apropos of nothing, “for by the thirty-first a good many people will have left town, though, of course they’d run up for a wedding like ours,—”
“Are you crazy?” she demanded. “We shan’t be home till the twenty-eighth, and you can’t get your invitations engraved in time, let alone sending them out.”
Checkers and Sybil drew near. “They’re all done and sent!” we chorused.
“I mailed part of them!” proclaimed my brother.
“I, too!” piped up Sybil.
“When was all this?” cried Aunt.