"I'm not a bit angelic, Porter," she told him, "and I'm simply freezing
out here. I had to show Susan about the confetti."
He drew her in and shut the door. "They sent me to hunt for you," he
said. "Constance wants you. She's going up-stairs to change. But I
heard just now that you are going to Nice. Leila told me. Mary--you
can't go--not so far away--from me."
His hand was on her arm.
She shook it off with a little laugh.
"You haven't a thing to do with it, Porter. And I'm not going--to Nice."
"But Leila said----"
Her head went up. It was a characteristic gesture. "It doesn't make any
difference what any one says. I'm not going to Nice."
Once more in the Tower Rooms, the two sisters were together for the last
time. Leila was sent down on a hastily contrived errand. Aunt Frances,
arriving, was urged to go back and look after the guests. Only Aunt
Isabelle was allowed to remain. She could be of use, and the things
which were to be said she could not hear.
"Dearest," Constance's voice had a break in it, "dearest, I feel so
selfish--leaving you----"
Mary was kneeling on the floor, unfastening hooks. "Don't worry, Con.
I'll get along."
"But you'll have to bear--things--all alone. It isn't as if any one
knew, and you could talk it out."
"I'd rather die than speak of it," fiercely, "and I sha'n't write
anything to you about it, for Gordon will read your letters."
"Oh, Mary, he won't."
"Oh, yes, he will, and you'll want him to--you'll want to turn your heart
inside out for him to read, to say nothing of your letters."
She stood up and put both of her hands on her sister's shoulders. "But
you mustn't tell him, Con. No matter how much you want to, it's my
secret and Barry's--promise me, Con----"
"But, Mary, a wife can't."
"Yes, she can have secrets from her husband. And this belongs to us,
not to him. You've married him, Con, but we haven't."
Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.
Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward. "My dear," she asked, in her thin
troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"