wedding, and how you will enjoy being chief bridesmaid, and how lovely
it will be when you come to stay with me in my own little house. Won't
it be fun doing just as we like, and ordering the dinners, and having
parties whenever we like, and being absolutely and entirely our own
mistresses, with no one to say: `Don't!' or `You must not,' or `I'll
leave it to you, dear--but you know my wishes!' That's the worst of
all, for it seems to put you on your honour, and then you're powerless.
You must often come to stay with us, Dreda dear."

Dreda lay silently, considering the situation. The prospect painted by
Rowena was sufficiently enticing to mitigate her first displeasure.
Pictures of bridal processions passed before her eyes; pictures of a
charmingly artistic little house, which would be as a second home, an
ideal home free from discipline and authority. The frown faded, her
lips relaxed, a dimple dipped in her cheek.

"You must let me choose the bridesmaids' dresses, and help to arrange
the drawing-room. I should have it green, with white paint; but you
must be awfully particular about the shade. I've got a wonderful eye
for colour--Fraulein says so. So _that_ was why you never listened when
people spoke to you, and kept on smiling in that silly way! I asked
mother, but she put me off. Rowena, tell me. What did he say?"

"_Dreda_!"

Rowena, drawing herself up with a most grown-up access of hauteur, gave
it to be understood that such questions were an outrage on good taste,
and her younger sister was obliged to turn to subjects less embarrassing
and intimate.

"Well, how did you feel then, when it was all settled and you had time
to think?"

"Very happy--utterly happy and contented. There seemed nothing I could
wish altered; except, oh, Dreda, I was sorry about the past. I wanted
to tell you about that, so that you might be warned in time. Father and
mother were so sweet to Guy and me; they never seemed to think of
themselves, but only of our happiness; but when I said good-night I saw
the tears in mother's eyes, and I said to myself, `You had the chance of
helping her when she was in trouble and of showing her what a comfort a
daughter could be; but you were cross and selfish, and threw _it_ aside,
and now _it_ is too late. It can never, never come back. You have
missed your chance.' That thought was like a cloud over my happiness.
I had felt so disappointed to miss my season in London, so angry at