her watch the men. She called, "Good-morning,
dear," a little sharply. Her voice spread consternation. Charles looked
round, and though completely attired in indigo blue, vanished into the
shed, and was seen no more.

"Miss Wilcox is up--" the child whispered, and then became
unintelligible.

"What is that?" it sounded like, "--cut-yoke--sack-back--"

"I can't hear."

"--On the bed--tissue-paper--"

Gathering that the wedding-dress was on view, and that a visit would
be seemly, she went to Evie's room. All was hilarity here. Evie, in a
petticoat, was dancing with one of the Anglo-Indian ladies, while the
other was adoring yards of white satin. They screamed, they laughed,
they sang, and the dog barked.

Margaret screamed a little too, but without conviction. She could not
feel that a wedding was so funny. Perhaps something was missing in her
equipment.

Evie gasped: "Dolly is a rotter not to be here! Oh, we would rag just
then!" Then Margaret went down to breakfast.

Henry was already installed; he ate slowly and spoke little, and was,
in Margaret's eyes, the only member of their party who dodged emotion
successfully. She could not suppose him indifferent either to the loss
of his daughter or to the presence of his future wife. Yet he dwelt
intact, only issuing orders occasionally--orders that promoted the
comfort of his guests. He inquired after her hand; he set her to pour
out the coffee and Mrs. Warrington to pour out the tea. When Evie came
down there was a moment's awkwardness, and both ladies rose to vacate
their places. "Burton," called Henry, "serve tea and coffee from the
sideboard!" It wasn't genuine tact, but it was tact, of a sort--the
sort that is as useful as the genuine, and saves even more situations at
Board meetings. Henry treated a marriage like a funeral, item by item,
never raising his eyes to the whole, and "Death, where is thy sting?
Love, where is thy victory?" one would exclaim at the close.

After breakfast Margaret claimed a few words with him. It was always
best to approach him formally. She asked for the interview, because he
was going on to shoot grouse to-morrow, and she was returning to Helen
in town.

"Certainly, dear," said he. "Of course, I have the time. What do you
want?"

"Nothing."

"I was afraid something had gone wrong."

"No; I have nothing to say, but you may talk."

Glancing at his watch, he talked of the nasty curve at the lych-gate.
She heard him with int