“Yes,” replied Charlotte, still with defiance.
“Oh, well, that doesn't count,” said Ina, turning for a last view of herself in the glass. “This dress fits beautifully.”
“I don't see what that has to do with it,” said Charlotte, as they left the room. She felt, even in the midst of parting, and without knowing why, a little indignation with her sister.
On the threshold, Ina paused suddenly and flung her arms around the other girl. “Oh, honey,” she said, with a half-sob—“oh, honey, how can we talk of who is handsome and who isn't, whether he is the butcher, the baker, or the candlestick-maker, when, when—” The two clung together for a minute, then Charlotte put her sister gently away.
“You will muss your veil, dearest,” said she, “and it is almost time to go, and Amy and papa will want the last of you.”
That night, after the bridal pair had departed and everybody else had gone to bed, Anna Carroll and her brother had a little conference in the parlor amid the débris of the wedding splendor. The flowers and greens were drooping, the room and the whole house had that peculiar phase of squalidness which comes alone from the ragged ends of festivities; the floors were strewn with rice and rose leaves and crumbs from the feast; plates and cups and saucers or fragments stood about everywhere; the chairs and the tables were in confusion. Anna, who had been locking up the silver for the night, had come into the parlor, and found her brother standing in a curious, absent-minded fashion in the middle of the floor.
“Why, Arthur!” said she. “I thought you had gone to bed.”
“I am going,” said he, but he made no move.
Anna looked at him, and her expression was weary and a little bitter. “Well, it is over,” said she.
Carroll nodded. “Yes,” he said, with a half-suppressed sigh.