It was because of Lucy Logan, therefore, that Edith had white violets instead of orchids in her wedding bouquet. And it was because, too, of Lucy Logan, that other things happened. Three of Edith’s bridesmaids were house-guests. Their names were Rosalind, Helen and Margaret. They had, of course, last names, but these have nothing to do with the story. They had been Edith’s classmates at college, and she had been somewhat democratic in her selection of them.
“They are perfect dears, Uncle Fred. I’ll have three cave-dwellers to balance them. Socially, I suppose, it will be a case of sheep and goats, but the goats are—darling.”
They were, however, the six of them, what Delafield called a bunch of beauties. Their bridesmaid gowns were exquisite—but unobtrusive. The color scheme was blue and silver—and the flowers, forget-me-nots and sweet peas. “It’s a bit old-fashioned,” Edith said, “but I hate sensational effects.”
Neither the sheep nor the goats agreed with her. Their ideas were different—the goats holding out for something impressionistic, the sheep for ceremonial splendor.
There was to be a wedding breakfast at the house. Things were therefore given over early to the decorators and caterers, and coffee and rolls were served in everybody’s room. Belated wedding presents kept coming, and Edith and her bridal attendants might be seen at all times on the stairs or in the hall in silken morning coats and delicious caps.
When the wedding bouquet arrived Edith sought out her uncle in his study on the second floor.
“Look at this,” she said; “how in the world did it happen that he sent white violets? Did you tell him, Uncle Fred?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
“Cross my heart.”