and fluffy white.

"Edith," Mrs. Houghton said, "you won't mind letting Maurice and Eleanor
have your room, will you, dear?"

"Is her name 'Eleanor'? I think it's a perfectly beautiful name! No,
I'd love to give her my room! Mother, she won't be as old as you are for
eleven years, and that's as long as I have been alive. So I won't worry
about Maurice just yet. Mother, may I have two helpings? When are they
coming?"

"They haven't been asked yet," her father said, grimly. "I'm not going
to concoct a letter, Mary, for a week. Let 'em worry! Maurice, confound
him!--has never worried in his life. Everything rolls off him like water
off a duck's back. It will do him good to chew nails for a while. I wish
I was asleep!"

"Why, father!" Edith said, aghast; "I don't believe you _want_ the
Bride!"

"You're a very intelligent young person," her father said, scratching
a match under the table and lighting a cigar.

"But, my dear," his wife said, "has it occurred to you that it may be
as unpleasant for the Bride to come, as for you to have her? _Henry!_
That's the third since breakfast!"

"Wrong for once, Mrs. Houghton. It's the fourth."

"_I_ want the Bride," said Edith.