When he arrived at the Northrup mansion, Gerelda's mother came down to welcome him.
Like her daughter, she did not appear to notice his constraint, and greeted him effusively, as in the old days.
"Have you seen the morning paper, Hubert?" she asked, with a little rippling laugh on her lips. "It is amusing to me how these newspaper men get hold of things so quickly. I was down to one of the stores this afternoon ordering the wedding-cards. I knew you would be anxious to get them, and I wanted to relieve your mind and Gerelda's as well. I was telling the designer the whole story—you know he is the same person who got up the last cards for you—when a man who stood near us, he must have been a reporter—took in every word I said. A few hours later, a young man representing the paper came up to interview me on the subject, remarking that I might as well tell the public the whole story, as the main part of the affair was already in print. He gave me a résume of what was about to appear, and I had to acknowledge that he had the story correct in most of its details."
She was shrewd enough to note that Hubert Varrick grew very pale while she was speaking, and she could not help but observe the hopelessness that settled over his face.
His heart was touched, in spite of himself, to see how gladly Gerelda greeted him, and to note how she seemed to hang on every word that he uttered, accepting his love as a matter of course.
Of what use to make any demur now that the fiat had gone forth? There was nothing for him to do but to accept the bride fate had intended for him, and shut out from his heart all thoughts of that other love.
It would be a terrible burden to go through life with, acting the part of a dutiful husband to a young wife whom he pitied but did not love.
Other men had gone through such ordeals. Surely he could be as brave as they.
And so the preparations for the wedding, for a second time, were begun. Again the guests were bidden, and the event was to take place in exactly six weeks from that day.