Perhaps her stay had been brief. Perhaps the ill-fated
courtship had taken place elsewhere? Even then, it seemed almost
unbelievably stupid of Bainbridge not to have known something. But
of course, she had not met nearly everybody. This fact lent
excitement to the idea of the reception. Something might be said at
any moment.
If not--there was still John. John must know. A man does not keep
the news of a serious love affair from his best friend. Some day,
when John knew her well enough, he might speak, delicately, of that
lost romance. Yes. She would have to cultivate John.
Luckily, John was easily cultivated. He had been quite charming to
her from the very first. He thought of her comfort continually,
almost too continually--but that, no doubt, was medical fussiness.
He insisted, for instance, upon putting wraps about her shoulders
after dewfall and refused to believe that she never caught cold.
Only last night he had left early saying that she must get her
beauty sleep so as to be fresh for the reception.
"One would think," she had said, sauntering with him to the gate,
"that the guests might decide to eat me instead of the ices. Why do
you all expect me to quake and shiver? They can't really do anything
to me, I suppose?"
"Do?" The doctor was absent-minded. "Do? Oh, they can do things all
right. But," with quite unnecessary emphasis, "their worst efforts
won't be a patch on the things you will do to them. Why, you'll add
ten years to the age of everyone over twenty and make the others
feel like babes in arms.
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