“And just take notice,” cried Wentworth, amidst the affluent fun, “take notice that Harrington has his wish. He was wishing, Muriel, or rather in a little discussion we had as to the proper mode of doing the marriage ceremony up golden brown, he was observing that to be married in this room, just as he is, with never a ghost of a kid glove on him, or any wedding embellishments, and nobody present but us, would be the height of his ambition. So you see, his Spartan soul is gratified!”
“So it is!” laughed Harrington. “I had forgotten it amidst the excitement; but that is what I said, and you, dear fairy princess, have gratified me.”
“Hold on now,” burst in the mercurial Wentworth, interrupting Muriel in the gay reply she was about to make. “Hold on! An idea strikes me. To wit, that nobody has called this lady by her new name. Sweet Muriel Eastman, vale, vale, vale. Adieu forevermore! Vanish, flower of spinsters, vanish into the fragrant twilight of memory. Mrs. Harrington, appear! All hail, Mrs. Harrington!”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Emily, clapping her hands, and undulating backward into a low curtsey. “All hail, Mrs. Harrington!”
Muriel, still clasping her husband, looked at them in their mirth with a pensive smile.
“I had forgotten it,” she said gently, and almost dreamfully, “for I feel like Muriel Eastman, still, with unmerged individuality.”
“And Muriel Eastman you shall be,” laughingly said Harrington; “and with unmerged individuality, too.”
“Nay,” said Muriel, with tender gaiety. “My new, sweet name, John—Muriel Harrington. I accept it. At least to the world I will be Muriel Harrington, and you shall think of me, and call me Muriel Eastman, still.”
“As I will ever,” responded Harrington.