“Oh, you’re my brother officer. I take you for granted,” Jerry assured her.
It was half-past seven by the busily ticking Dresden clock on Jerry’s chiffonier. At eight o’clock that evening Jerry was to be married to Danny Seabrooke in the Macy’s beautiful salon-like drawing room downstairs. She had been dressed for half an hour for the momentous journey she was soon to take down the grand staircase, and on her flower-decked way to keep a high tryst with Danny, her devoted cavalier of high school days.
Mrs. Dean, Miss Susanna and Marjorie had been spending an intimate half hour with the bride-to-be in accordance to her forceful plea: “For goodness sake stick to me.” The two older women now left the room to take their places among the guests. Only Marjorie remained with her chum, knowing that Jerry wished her to do so.
As the door closed upon Miss Susanna and Mrs. Dean, Jerry walked over to the long triple-plated floor mirror and began a critical survey of her resplendent self in it. Marjorie sat watching her with proud, admiring eyes. She thought she had never before seen Jerry look so pretty.
“Well, Bean,” Jerry presently turned away from the mirror to fix round, inquiring blue eyes almost solemnly upon Marjorie, “what’s the verdict? I mean, how does Jeremiah look?”
“You are so lovely in your wedding dress, Jerry.” Marjorie gave a sigh of delighted admiration.
“Honestly, and truly am I—do I look as nice as that?” Jerry’s cheeks grew pinker at the tribute.
“Honestly, and truly you are—you do,” Marjorie assured with amused emphasis. “You know I’ve always liked best to see you wear white. But tonight—you are positively stunning, Jeremiah. Your wedding dress is a dream, and so are you in it.”
“Oh, gee, but I’m glad of it,” Jerry gave a sigh of profound relief. “Since it’s you who is saying it, I have to believe it. I’d like to look—um-m, something celostrous, all on Danny’s account. I want him to be properly impressed by my—ahem—resplendent beauty,” Jerry giggled, her sense of humor ever to the fore. There was, nevertheless, something of girlish wistfulness in her joking words.
“He will be,” Marjorie devotedly predicted. “What do you think of yourself in your wedding finery?” she continued mischievously.