The tea room was deserted, save for a woman who sipped her tea with a novel propped up before her, and a man who took immense swallows, scalded himself, wiped away the tears and fell to figuring frantically; forgot the tea was hot, scalded himself with another hasty mouthful, repeating the performance thrice over to the fascinated marvel of the girls, who watched him with ill-suppressed giggles.
With only two, and two such absorbed customers, Happie, Gretta and Laura had no hesitation in discussing Robert Gaston, the one subject in the world just then, and they gave themselves up to it unreservedly, elbows on table, chins in hands, over in a corner that suggested privacy. From comparing notes on his personal appearance—regarded by Happie differently, more analytically, since she knew him for himself—and agreeing that in face, air and manner there could hardly be a finer gentleman, they went on to praise his kindliness and universal good qualities till Happie dropped her arms on the table and her face on them, and groaned dismally.
"What's the matter?" demanded Laura, rather frightened.
"Never mind, Happie, he may be rude and disagreeable to Margery," suggested Gretta with an amused twist of the lips, understanding Happie's groan better than Laura did.
"Oh, yes, it's likely!" said Happie from the muffling bend of her elbow. "Of course a blind man could see the end of this."
"You mean it's going to be a romance?" inquired Laura. "Of course any one would care for Margery—I should think they would love her madly, she is so very calm herself. I'm sure I don't see what you're groaning about, Happie. Only think how perfectly beautiful Margery would look under a bridal veil, walking slowly to the strains of heavenly music! I'll write the music. I guess I'll have it a chanted march, something like the Lohengrin one. I'll write the words, too. Do you suppose the tea room will make enough money for us by that time so we can afford to hire a lot of boys in white surplices to walk ahead, chanting? No, I'd rather have them in velvet knee breeches, with buckles——"
"Like Bobby Shafto," interrupted Happie, but she laughed.
"And girls in—silver and pink!" cried Laura triumphantly, having hesitated for an instant. "All chanting my lovely epitaphalium."
"Your what? Oh, Laura, what are you talking about? Epitaphs are for graves!" protested Happie.
"Maybe that isn't the right word," said Laura with heightened color. "I believe it's epithalami-something, now I think of it. I was looking over the poets in our bookcase, and I saw they used to write epithalami-things for weddings. I thought I'd remember it in case any of you girls were married some day. Only I should write music too. I believe I'll go now and compose something impertinent for Mr. Gaston's coming."