“I’ve got a pair of lovely white silk stockings,” said his mother. “They’d do for tights, and Ethel has got a satin petticoat that’s just beginning to go in one place. I should think we could make some sort of costume from that, don’t you? We’ll buy some more white satin and get some patterns.”
“No, I won’t wear Ethel’s ole clothes,” said William smouldering. “You all jus’ want to make me look ridiclus. You don’t care how ridiclus I look. I shall be ridiclus all the rest of my life goin’ about in Ethel’s ole clothes. I jus’ won’t do it. I jus’ won’t go to any ole weddin’. No, I don’t want to see Cousin Sybil married, an’ I jus’ won’t be made look ridiclus in Ethel’s ole clothes.”
They reasoned and coaxed and threatened, but in vain. Finally William yielded to parental authority and went about his world with an air of a martyr doomed to the stake. Even the game of mountaineering had lost its charm and the alpenstock lay neglected against the garden wall. The attitude of his select circle of friends was not encouraging.
“Yah! Page! Who’s goin’ to be a page? Oh, crumbs. A page all dressed up in white. Dear little Willie. Won’t he look swe-e-e-et?”
Life became very full. It was passed chiefly in the avenging of insults. William cherished a secret hope that the result of this would be to leave him disfigured for life and so unable to attend the wedding. However, except for a large lump on his forehead, he was none the worse. He eyed the lump thoughtfully in his looking-glass and decided that with a little encouragement it might render his public appearance in an affair of romance an impossibility. But the pain which resulted from one heroic effort at banging it against the wall caused him to abandon the plan.
Dorita arrived the next week, and with her her small brother, Michael, aged three. Dorita was slim and graceful, with a pale little oval face and dark curling hair.
Miss Grant received her on the doorstep.
“Well, my little maid of honour?” she said in her flute-like tones. “Welcome! We’re going to be such friends—you and me and William—the bride” (she blushed and bridled becomingly) “and her little page and her little maid of honour. William’s a boy, and he’s just a leetle bit thoughtless and doesn’t realise the romance of it all. I’m sure you will. I see it in your dear little face. We’ll have some lovely talks together.” Her eyes fell upon Michael and narrowed suddenly. “He’d look sweet, too, in white satin, wouldn’t he?” turning to Mrs. Brown. “He could walk between them.... We could buy some more white satin....”
When they had gone the maid of honour turned dark, long-lashed, demure eyes upon William.
“Soft mug, that,” she said in clear refined tones, nodding in the direction of the door through which the tall figure of Miss Grant had just disappeared.