Then the maid of honour, aware that cold deliberation often kills the most glorious impulses, seized William’s hand.
“Sit down. Quick!” she whispered sharply.
Without a word they sat down. They sat till they felt the cold moisture penetrate to their skins. Then William heaved a deep sigh.
“We can’t go now,” he said.
Through the open door they saw a little group coming—Miss Grant in shining white, followed by William’s mother, arrayed in her brightest and best, and William’s father, whose expression revealed a certain weariness mingled with a relief that the whole thing would soon be over.
“Here’s the old sardine all togged up,” whispered Dorita.
“William! Dorita! Michael!” they called.
Slowly William, Dorita and Michael obeyed the summons.
When Miss Grant’s eyes fell upon the strange object that was Michael, she gave a loud scream.
“Michael! Oh, the dreadful child!”