She threw the cloud of misty lace over her head.
"Why, Annette, it makes you look lovely!" Lawrence exclaimed.
"I am glad you think so," she responded dryly, and took it off again.
Lawrence was seated on a tabouret in Annette's own sitting-room, which no one else was allowed to enter during these last days of her maiden life. It had been newly furnished after her own improved taste, and the luxury and elegance of everything pleased him. He was still more pleased to see her so well in harmony with it. He was beginning to find her interesting, especially as he found her indifferent and a little commanding toward him.
"And now, Lawrence," she said, folding carefully the beautiful Alençon flounce, "you have some little preparation to make. You know you must be reconciled to the church."
"I have nothing against the church," he said coolly.
"The church has something against you, and it is a serious matter," she urged, refusing to smile. "You haven't been to confession for—how many years? Not a few, certainly. No priest will marry us till you go."
"I suppose a minister wouldn't do?" remarked the young man, with the greatest hardihood, seeming mildly doubtful about the question.
"Now, Lawrence, don't talk nonsense," Annette begged. "When one is going to be married, one feels a little sober."
"That's a fact!" he assented, with rather ungallant emphasis.