They had had their joke about Del’s orchids. “If he knew how I hated them,” Edith would say, and Uncle Fred would answer, “Why don’t you tell him?”
But she had never told, because after all it didn’t much matter, and if Delafield felt that orchids were the proper thing, why muddle up his mind with her preferences?
“Anyhow,” she said now, “I am glad my wedding bouquet is different.” As she stood there, lovely in her sheer draperies, the fragrant mass of flowers in her arms, her eyes looked at him over the top, wistfully. “Uncle Fred,” she asked, unexpectedly, “do you love me?”
“Of course——”
“Please don’t say it that way——” Her voice caught.
“How shall I say it?”
“As if you—cared.”
He stood up and put his hands on her shoulders. “My dear child,” he said, “I do.”
“You’ve been no end good to me,” she said, and dropped the bouquet on a chair and clung to him, sobbing.
He held her in his arms and soothed her. “Being a bride is a bit nerve-racking.”