CHAPTER VII
CONSPIRATORS OF HAPPINESS
“Who is he, Leila?” Helen Trent teasingly called out.
“Yes, who is he, and where did you first meet him?” Leslie Cairns, usually the most silent among the group, could not refrain from joining in the teasing.
“A fine Irish gentleman, of course,” Robin said with elaborate positiveness.
“I must begin practicing old Irish airs,” Phil supplemented with an energetic nod. “I may be asked to play at the wedding.”
“It is valuable time you will be wasting in the practice,” came in ironic tones from behind the big bouquet. The bride’s flowery insignia had dropped squarely into Leila’s open arms at the second when she had dashed forward with the others. Her arms still enwrapping the floral grace, she had ducked her black head until only the crown of it showed above the top of the bouquet.
“Don’t pretend to be so shy! We know you aren’t blushing,” Vera exclaimed.
“How can you know when you can not see my face?” came pithily from behind the white shelter. Leila’s face popped up above the flowers. She peered over them at her tormentors with an expression of such ludicrous shyness as to produce a gale of laughter.
“Now laugh at me,” she said reprovingly, “and that after you have had a fine time making fun of me. And it’s that embarrassed I am. I am all but tongue-tied from bashfulness.”
“We’d never have suspected such a thing. So glad you told us.” Even staid Lucy felt impelled to join in the merry badinage.