"And
what's all this about wedding finery? Is there a bride in this
vicinity?"
Dorothy held out a stocking. "A bride's white silken hose," she said,
complacently.
"Embroidered on the knee with the bride's initials," added Cecile,
proudly.
"Yours, Dorothy?" I demanded.
"Yes, but I shall not wear them for ages and ages. I told you so last
night."
"But I thought Dorothy had best make ready," remarked Cecile. "Dorothy
is to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the
white silk stockings when she weds Sir George."
"Sir George who?" I asked, bluntly.
"Why, Sir George Covert. Didn't you know?"
I looked at Dorothy, incensed without a reason.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, ungraciously.
"Why didn't you ask me?" she replied, a trifle hurt.
I was silent.
Cecile said: "I hope that Dorothy will marry him soon. I want to see how
she looks in this petticoat."
"Ho!" sneered Harry, "you just want to wear one like it and be a
bridesmaid and primp and give yourself airs. I know you!"
"Sir George Covert is a good fellow," remarked Ruyven, with a
patronizing nod at Dorothy; "but I always said he was too old for you.
You should see how gray are his temples when he wears no powder."
"He has fine eyes," murmured Cecile.
"He's too old; he's forty," repeated Ruyven.
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