"As though she had been sunstruck," interposed Nanty.
Mother was mildly indignant.
"She looked like an angel, Anastasia."
Nanty gave a little grunt.
"An angel in a Paris hat, eh? But I must admit she looked rather nice. She's certainly far too good for the Doctor."
"Of course, Jane is getting on," said mother doubtfully.
"If she were sixty she would be too good for any man," pronounced Nanty decisively, and when she adopted that tone mother ceased to argue.
I was glad that the wedding morning dawned serenely beautiful. I had feared lowering skies, heavy, white mists, a dripping, gloomy, sad-faced world, but November was on her best behaviour. The sun sent mild, warm rays across the garden, and the few leaves which still clung to the trees across the fence were as splashes of gold against the brown branches and quiet, blue sky.
They bade me remain in bed till late on in the morning, so that I might be well and strong for the reception, which was a grand name to give to a gathering of a dozen or more people.
I lay and laughed at the various sounds of the household, which were carried to me through my open door—at Amelia's shrill expostulations with the Help, who seemed to be bent upon doing the wrong thing at the wrong time; at Peter's explosions as he was chivied about from pillar to post by "tiresome women who would go putting silly decorations all over the confounded place"; and at Dimbie's perpetual wailing at the disappearance of the corkscrew. "Tie it round your neck on a ribbon, Dumbarton," I could hear Peter growl; and Dimbie said it was a most excellent suggestion on the part of his father-in-law, and he would carry it out at once.