It was a little too early to go down, and we drew
some high-backed chairs together and sat down to look at one another in
our wedding garments.
"I'd like to get married myself again to-night," declared the Skeptic,
forcibly pulling on his gloves with a man's brutal disregard for the
possible instability of seams. He eyed his wife possessively. "Tell
me--will the Preacher's bride put her in the shade?"
"Don!" But Hepatica's falling lashes could not quite conceal her
pleasure in his pride.
"Not for a minute." The Philosopher's benevolent gaze approved of his
friend's wife from the top of her masses of shining hair to the tip of
her white-shod foot. "At the same time, I don't feel quite such a
dispirited compassion for the Preacher himself as I did on the way down.
Can that possibly be the same girl who treated Grandmother as if she
were an inconvenient, antique family relic, and the rest of us as if she
endured but was horribly bored by us?"
"I have never supposed grandmothers," said the Skeptic thoughtfully, "to
be particularly influential members of society.
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