“Follow me, and see what happens,” she teased as she began a slow walk down the salon, and toward the reception hall, surrounded by a laughing, expostulating seven.
“Don’t worry. You couldn’t lose us if you tried,” Helen Trent assured the bride.
“You ought to give Robin and me a special tip-off, Jeremiah. What chance have we against five tall, long-armed ladies?” Vera complained plaintively.
“Pay no attention to Midget,” counseled Leila. “What she lacks in height she makes up in quickness. If she does not snap up the bouquet from under our very noses it will not be for lack of trying.”
“It’s sportsmanlike to try out this grab game, but if it means ‘Leslie, you’ll be married next,’ then I hope I miss,” Leslie confided to Leila in an undertone. “I’ve contracted to keep house for Peter the Great for the next few years, so that lets me out,” she averred with her slow smile.
“I am fondling no hopes in that direction, either,” Leila murmured. “My ideal is a nice, white-haired old gentleman who will defer to me on all occasions; one who will enjoy being unmercifully bossed.” She rolled her blue eyes drolly at Leslie, who giggled softly.
“When you find him, don’t forget to invite me to your wedding,” she stipulated.
“You shall be my maid of honor,” Leila made affable promise. “By then, we shall be old and gray, I am afraid, and be wearing bonnets and spectacles.”
Jerry and her alert following had now reached the foot of the grand stairway. She set one slim, satin-shod foot upon the first step of the staircase as though about to begin the ascent of the stairs. Then she suddenly whirled about and tossed her bridal bouquet high in the air, well above the heads of the eager group of girls. A wild scramble for it ensued, accompanied by excited feminine cries. An instant, and a shout of gay laughter ascended from the animated group. Came a merry chorus of: “Leila’s going to be married next. Leila’s going to be married next.”