Two hours later Tory Drew and Dorothy McClain found themselves seated side by side upon a divan in the corner of the drawing-room of Mr. and Mrs. Mason’s home.
The bride and groom had departed; only a few guests were still lingering, the intimate friends of the host and hostess.
The girls appeared weary and dispirited.
Dorothy put out her hand and touched the golden roses in the other girl’s lap.
“There is something a little depressing about a wedding, isn’t there? I wonder why? I was cheerful and happy enough this morning. I suppose it is because things are now over and Sheila and Mr. Winslow no longer here.”
She appeared uncommonly grave.
“Suppose we make a compact with each other, Tory, to keep the promise we made the other day, you, Louise, and I, never to marry.”
Laughing, Tory Drew shook her head.
She had removed her hat, and her hair was a beautiful bright red-gold rising above the pale green of her gown, the stem to some radiant, gayly-colored flower.
“I don’t consider it wise to make rash compacts. We will keep our word only if we really wish. But whatever fate overtakes us, remember ‘I am the master of my fate, I am the Captain of my soul.’