“Silly sentimentality.” Edith was impatient.
The room was in all the gloom of drawn curtains. The dresses hung on racks, and, encased in white bags, gave a ghostly effect. “They are like rows of tombstones, Alice.”
“Yes, Miss Towne,” said Alice, dutifully.
The maid brought out the wedding dress and laid it on the bed.
Edith, surveying it, was stung by the memory of the emotions which had swayed her when she had last worn it. It had seemed to mock her. She had wanted to tear it into shreds. She had seen her own tense countenance in the mirror, as she had controlled herself before Alice. Then, when the maid had left, she had thrown herself on the bed, and had writhed in an agony of humiliation.
And now all her anger was gone. She didn’t hate Del. She didn’t hate Lucy. She even thought of Uncle Fred with charity. And the wedding gown was, after all, a robe for a princess who married a king. Not a robe for a princess who loved a page. A tender smile softened her face.
“Alice,” she said, suddenly, “wasn’t there a little heliotrope dinner frock among my trousseau things?”
“Yes, Miss Towne. Informal.” Alice hunted in the third row of tombstones until she found it.
“I want long sleeves put in it. Will you tell Hardinger, and have him send a hat to match?”
“Yes, Miss Towne.”