“Oh, George!” Fair exclaimed, then looked at him pleadingly.
“Well, dearest?” he asked encouragingly, and she faltered:
“I should like—like—to invite—some of the working girls to my reception.”
He frowned slightly.
“But, Fair, you know you will move in a different circle hereafter. And, besides, what would my cousin, Bayard Lorraine, say if he knew that, in addition to the crime of marrying a working girl, I actually invited sewing girls to my wedding reception?”
The hot color flew to the creamy, fair cheeks, as it always did when he spoke that name, and Fair exclaimed angrily:
“Who cares what he thinks? I hate him, and I wish he had not saved my life, so there!” And, to his consternation, she burst into a babyish fit of crying.
CHAPTER VII.
THE FATAL WEDDING.
But she carried her point, after all, and a few of her companions at the factory—Sadie Allen, Belva Platt, Mrs. Jones, the forewoman, and a few others—were specially invited, and Fair delivered to each a message from Mr. Lorraine to the effect that they would be conveyed in carriages from the church to his residence.
The carriages were really there, and so were the bridal party—Fair in a simple white dress and hat such as a pretty girl may wear to church any Sunday, and the invited guests all in gala attire, and on the tiptoe of expectation. The groom looked pale and grave, but remarkably handsome, in his black suit, and Fair felt him tremble perceptibly as he drew her hand through his arm and led her before the waiting minister, who, with the short, simple ritual of the Baptist Church, soon made them one.