"I fear I come too late," I said, forcing a smile I was not inclined to.
"Ah, yes; too late," she sighed, pretending a doleful mien.
"Why?" demanded Harry, blankly.
Dorothy shook her head. "Sir George would never permit me such a liberty. If he would, our cousin Ormond and I could wed at once; you see I have my bride's stockings here; Cecile could do my hair, Sammy carry my prayer-book, Benny my train, Ruyven read the service--"
Harry, flushing at the shout of laughter, gave Dorothy a dark look, turned and eyed me, then scowled again at Dorothy.
"All the same," he said, slowly, "you're a great goose not to wed him.... And you'll be sorry ... when he's dead!"
At this veiled prophecy of my approaching dissolution, all were silent save Dorothy and Ruyven, whose fresh laughter rang out peal on peal.
"Laugh," said Harry, gloomily; "but you won't laugh when he's killed in the war, ... and scalped, too."
Ruyven, suddenly sober, looked up at me. Dorothy bent over her needle-work and examined it attentively.
"Are you going to the war?" asked Cecile, plaintively.