“And what’s the good of having point de Venise on my dress for the gardeners and stable boys to gape at?” Trixy goes on, peevishly. “I think it is too bad to be done out of everything like this! I had made up my mind to have a fine wedding, all the good-looking men in town, a lot of bridesmaids, and—why, what’s the matter, Zai?”
The matter is that Zai has allowed a sob to break in on her talk.
“Nothing,” she says, in a low voice; “only your speaking of bridesmaids made me think of Baby!”
“You were always a wet blanket, Zai. Whenever one is trying to look on the bright side of things, you are sure to say something horrible,” Trixy replies, in a tone of martyrdom. “I think of Baby too; but I drive away the thought because it is my bounden duty. Mamma says I’m not to make myself ugly with crying and fretting, and, Zai, do you know, I don’t think there’s much to grieve about Baby. She’s escaped marrying a—Mr. Stubbs!”
It strikes Zai again that Trixy’s ideas are a little out of the way, and wiping her tears, she takes up a book.
“I say Zai! I want to tell you something,” Trixy announces suddenly, in a half whisper. “It’s a secret, a dead secret, and you will have to swear you will keep it.”
“I promise,” Zai answers quietly, wondering what important thing is to be divulged, as Trixy crosses the room and comes close up to her.
“No, no! you must swear.”
“I never swear; but my promise holds as good.”
“Well, then, listen. Gabrielle told me this morning that there is something between you and Lord Delaval.”