Everything was in readiness; the bridal-gown—a dream of snow-white beauty, brocaded satin, with priceless point-lace veil—was perfect; the bridal-pearls—her father’s gift—exquisite. Her trunks were packed with beautiful robes, the envy of all her feminine friends.
She sat alone that evening, waiting for Philip, who had promised to make a short call, even though it was the bridal-eve, and Aunt Edwina had hinted that Viola ought to have a long beauty sleep.
Against the background of her dark-blue silk, with its creamy laces, her fair face shone like a delicate flower, smiles on her lips and joy in her eyes.
She said to herself that she was the happiest girl in the wide world.
She knew she did not quite deserve it, because she had certainly brought some unhappiness into others’ lives through her willful coquetries; but that was all past and done with now, and she was going to be a better girl.
She did not remember what one of the great masters of literature has written:
“Consequences are unpitying.”
As her wedding-day came so near, with its attendant hurry and excitement, she forgot the forebodings of evil that had tortured her a few weeks ago. Every unpleasant thought had taken wing. She forgot Florian and remembered only Philip.
Glancing around the luxurious room that seemed so lonely without him, she tapped her dainty foot impatiently, murmuring:
“I wish he would come!”