The heliotrope frock had simple and lovely lines. It floated in sheer beauty from the maid’s hands as she held it up. “There isn’t a prettier one in the whole lot, Miss Edith.”
“I like it,” the fragrance of heliotrope was wafted from hidden sachets, “and as for the wedding gown,” Edith eyed it thoughtfully, “pack it in a box with the veil and the rest of the things. I want Briggs to take it with the note to an address that I will give him.”
“Oh, yes, Miss Towne.” Alice was much interested in the address. She studied it when, later, she carried the box and the note down to Briggs.
Edith, having dispatched the box with a charming note to Lucy Logan, had a feeling of ecstatic freedom. All the hurt and humiliation of the bridal episode had departed. She didn’t care what the world thought of her. Her desertion by Del had been material for a day’s gossip—then other things had filled the papers, had been headlined and emphasized. And what difference did it all make?
The things that mattered were those of which she had talked to Lucy. An old house—mutual interests, all the rest of it. “I would tramp the road with him,” little Lucy had said. That was love—to count nothing hard but the lack of it.
She was called to the telephone, and found Eloise Harper at the other end. “Delafield is coming back,” she said. “Benny has had a letter.”
“Darling town-crier,” said Edith, “you are late with your news.”
“What do you mean by town-crier?”
“That’s what we call you, dearest.”
“Oh, do you?” dubiously. “Well, anyhow, Delafield is on his way back, and he is going to be married as soon as he gets here.”