XVIII
Fanny Price, a pale-faced little creature, in her bridesmaid’s finery, stood there looking at them. Conversation had begun again in a faint-hearted way, but it hushed as she spoke.
“Diane wants to know—is it true about Overton?”
Faunce crossed the room and took Fanny’s hand in his, trying to reply to the challenge of her eyes. She was shaken, horribly shaken, with the remembrance of his book and Overton’s, and of that black gap in the narrative which could easily be filled with Overton’s death.
“Tell Diane that it’s a story, a mere newspaper story,” he said firmly. “It couldn’t be true—you know that.”
She assented, drew her hand hastily out of his, and ran back up-stairs.
The dean exchanged a meaning look with his wife. They had both seen Faunce flinch under Fanny’s glance, and Mrs. Price tried to divert the thoughts of the guests. She touched Herford’s arm and whispered:
“Take them all into the dining-room, Cousin Hadley. She wants to get off without a shower of rice!”
The judge nodded, rousing himself from the unpleasant break in the festivities.
“Come!” he said in a genial tone. “Let’s go back and drink to the health and happiness of the bride and groom for the last time!”