He possessed himself of the firm, strong, first finger of his fiancée’s left hand and kissed it rapturously. “Poor little finger,” said he, “poor dear little finger! Can’t you have people in to do the things?”
“I am afraid that would go against mother’s ideas,” Regina returned, “but I’ll sound her on the point.”
Eventually Regina Brown’s three dozen of everything were got together, neatly folded, and tied up in half-dozens with delicate shades of ribbon, and the wedding day was fixed to take place just fourteen months after the engagement had come about.
The bride’s parents came down handsomely on the occasion. It was a great event, that wedding. Eight bridesmaids, four in pink and four in blue, followed Regina to the altar. Regina herself was dressed as a bride in a shiny white silk, with a voluminous veil. There was a large company, and much flying to and fro of hired carriages—mostly with white horses—distributing of favors, and a popping of champagne corks, when all was over and the two had been made man and wife. And then there was a heart-broken parting, when Regina was torn away from the ample bosom of her adoring mother, and a wild shower of rice and satin slippers, such as strewed the road before the Brown domicile for many days after the wedding was over.
So Regina Brown became Mrs. Alfred Whittaker, and her place in her father’s house knew her no more.
All things considered, she made an admirable wife. If Alfred adored Regina, Regina worshipped Alfred, and under her care, and in the sunshine of her lavish and outspoken admiration of his personal beauty, he grew sleek and prosperous.
If only a son had been born to them, a little son who would have carried on the traditions of both families, who could have been called Brown-Whittaker, and gladdened the hearts of three separate households. But no son came—never a sign of a son. On the contrary, about a year after their marriage a little daughter arrived on the scene, who was welcomed as a precursor of the unborn Brown-Whittaker, and was named Maud. And little Maud Whittaker grew and throve apace, went through the usual early infantile troubles, and, about two years later, the process which is known among domestic people as having her nose put out of joint.
And again it was a girl.
For some reason not explained to the whole world, the second baby was christened Julia, and forthwith became a very important item in the world.
“The next one must be a boy,” said Mrs. Alfred Whittaker, as she cuddled the new arrival to her side.