"Yes, she _can_ have secrets from her husband. And this belongs to us,
not to him. You've married him, Con, but we haven't."

Aunt Isabelle, gentle Aunt Isabelle, shut off from the world of sound,
could not hear Con's little cry of protest, but she looked up just in
time to see the shimmering dress drop to the floor, and to see the bride,
sheathed like a lily in whiteness, bury her head on Mary's shoulder.

Aunt Isabelle stumbled forward. "My dear," she asked, in her thin
troubled voice, "what makes you cry?"

"It's nothing, Aunt Isabelle." Mary's tone was not loud, but Aunt
Isabelle heard and nodded.

"She's dead tired, poor dear, and wrought up. I'll run and get the
aromatic spirits."

With Aunt Isabella out of the way, Mary set herself to repair the damage
she had done. "I've made you cry on your wedding day, Con, and I wanted
you to be so happy. Oh, tell Gordon, if you must. But you'll find that
he won't look at it as you and I have looked at it. He won't make the
excuses."

"Oh, yes he will." Constance's happiness seemed to come back to her
suddenly in a flood of assurance. "He's the best man in the world, Mary,
and so kind. It's because you don't know him that you think as you do."

Mary could not quench the trust in the blue eyes. "Of course he's good,"
she said, "and you are going to be the happiest ever, Constance."