“And now,” said Fanny, after the hat had been properly praised, “tell me when it is to be?”
“When is what to be?”
“You and Arthur?”
“Next autumn.”
“I shall send a fish knife,” said Fanny, savorously. “A fish knife always looks so big and costs so little. Though if I could I would give you a diamond crown.”
“Give me your promise to be bridesmaid, and you will have given me what I want from you most.”
“But what am I to wear? And oh, Sylvia, how am I to get it? I don’t dare any more to so much as look in on Annette, or Juliette, or Marguerite. There are streets into which I can no longer go. I told Loftus that, and he said—so sympathetically too—‘Ah, is it memories that prevent you?’ ‘Rubbish,’ I told him, ‘it’s bills.’ ”
“Fanny! How could you? He might have offered to pay them.”
“If he had only offered to owe them!” Fanny laughed as she spoke and patted her perfect skirt.
“But he has other fish to fry. Do you know the other day I saw him—”
But what Fanny had seen was never told, or at least not then. Annandale was invading the parlor.
“Conquering hero!” cried Fanny. “I am here congratulating Sylvia.”
“I congratulate myself that you are. I have a motor at the door, and I propose to take you both to Sherry’s, afterward, if you like, to the races. There you may congratulate me.”