“I’m horridly hungry,” she said.  “It’s luncheon time, isn’t it?  And, by the way, it’s all right about that maid.  She was on her way to serve in the tea pavilion at Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt’s bazaar, and her runabout broke down and nearly blew up.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” exclaimed Drusilla.

“I’m talking about Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt’s younger sister from Philadelphia, who looks perfectly sweet as a lady’s maid.  Tea,” she added, “is to be a dollar a cup, and three if you take sugar.  And,” she continued, “if you and I are to sell flowers there this afternoon we’d better go home and dress.... What are you smiling at, Mr. Yates?”

Drusilla naturally supposed she could answer that question.

“Dearest little sister,” she said shyly and tenderly, “we have something very wonderful to tell you.”

“What is it?” asked Flavilla.

“We—­we are—­engaged,” whispered Drusilla, radiant.

“Why, I knew that already!” said Flavilla.

“Did you?” sighed her sister, turning to look at her tall, young lover.  “I didn’t....  Being in love is a much more complicated matter than you and I imagined, Flavilla.  Is it not, Jack?”

[Illustration]

XVI

FLAVILLA

Containing a Parable Told with Such Metaphorical Skill that the Author Is Totally Unable to Understand It

The Green Mouse now dominated the country; the entire United States was occupied in getting married.  In the great main office on Madison Avenue, and in a thousand branch offices all over the Union, Destyn-Carr machines were working furiously; a love-mad nation was illuminated by their sparks.

Marriage-license bureaus had been almost put out of business by the sudden matrimonial rush; clergymen became exhausted, wedding bells in the churches were worn thin, California and Florida reported no orange crops, as all the blossoms had been required for brides; there was a shortage of solitaires, traveling clocks, asparagus tongs; and the corner in rice perpetrated by some conscienceless captain of industry produced a panic equaled only by a more terrible coup in slightly worn shoes.

All America was rushing to get married; from Seattle to Key West the railroads were blocked with bridal parties; a vast hum of merrymaking resounded from the Golden Gate to Governor’s Island, from Niagara to the Gulf of Mexico.  In New York City the din was persistent; all day long church bells pealed, all day long the rattle of smart carriages and hired hacks echoed over the asphalt.  A reporter of the Tribune stood on top of the New York Life tower for an entire week, devouring cold-slaw sandwiches and Marie Corelli, and during that period, as his affidavit runs, “never for one consecutive second were his ample ears free from the near or distant strains of the Wedding March.”