In the center of the table stood the bride's-cake, a snowy pyramid, the triumph of Pallas's skill, wreathed about with garlands. It was fair to look upon, within and without, and sweet to the taste as agreeable to the eyes.
"Dar' was de whites of fifty eggs beaten up in dat cake," its maker declared, in an aside to Virginia.
"Then I should call it a very egg-spensive and egg-stravagant article," remarked Mr. Raymond, who had heard the assertion.
"'Tain't any too nice for de bride it was made fer, masser."
"There's a ring in it," said Alice, as she performed the duty of the occasion by cutting the cake. "Who has it?"
Everybody took their piece with curiosity, and finally Mr. Irving held up the golden circlet, giving, at the same time, a glance towards Virginia, too expressive to be misunderstood.
"You'll be married next, Mr. Irving, and we hold ourselves all invited to the wedding," said Mrs. Raymond.
"I hope I may be," replied that gentleman, with a second glance toward the bride-maid; but she was looking to her plate, and did not seem to hear him.
Virginia had pursued the art of flirtation too long to abandon it at once.