Julius had just given his order and leaned comfortably back in his chair when he caught sight of them.  “By George!” he ejaculated.  “Well, well! so this is where they’ve come!  Been mighty mysterious about where they meant to spend the day, but we’ve caught ’em.  Started in the opposite direction this morning, too—­just for a blind.  You see there are a lot of practical jokers among Clifford’s friends, and their attentions haven’t been confined to the hour of the wedding itself.  I say, recognize the girl in the lead with the bride’s brother, that light-haired fellow?”

Drawing back so that he was concealed by the curtains of the window Waldron looked out at the approaching bevy of young people.  Up the path they came, talking, laughing, shifting like a pattern in a kaleidoscope, gay, handsome, sophisticated, modishly dressed, unconventionally mannered, yet showing, most of them, the traces of that youthful ennui so often betrayed in these modern days by those who of all the world should feel it least.

Julius’s brotherly eye rested upon his sister, as it had done that morning, with cool satisfaction.  Some of the girls looked in disarray, hair tumbled, frocks rumpled, faces burned.  Dorothy’s simple white serge suit was unmussed, her hair was trim under her plain white hat with its black velvet band, her colour was even, her dark eyes clear.  Although Ridgeway Jordan was bestowing upon her the most devoted attentions, his eyes constantly seeking—­but seldom finding—­hers, she was showing no consciousness of it beyond the little, curving, half-smile with which she was answering him.  In a word, her brother felt, Dot was sweet—­strong and sweet and unspoiled—­fascinating, too, being a woman and not without guile.  Didn’t she know—­of course she did—­that it was just that noncommittal attitude of hers, amused and pleased and interested, but unimpressed by their regard, that drew the men like a magnet?

Behind Dorothy and young Jordan one of the bridesmaids, an extraordinarily pretty girl, was laughing hysterically, clutching at her attendant’s sleeve and then pushing him away.  He was laughing with her—­and at her—­and his eyes, all the time, were following Dorothy Broughton.  It seemed to Julius, as the party came on, that most of the girls were behaving foolishly—­and quite all the men.  Perhaps it was because they had all seen so much of each other during these days and nights of merry-making that they had reached the borders of a dangerous familiarity.  A little tired of one another most of them had become, it was more than probable.  Against this background Dorothy showed easily the most distinction of them all; she looked in her simple attire, contrasted with the elaborate costumes of the other bridesmaids, like a young princess reigning over a too frivolous suite.

Kirke Waldron looked, unperceived, out of his window, and Julius, turning his eyes from the picture before him, observed his friend.  Waldron’s face was not what might be called an expressive one; it was the face of a man who had learned not to show what he might be feeling.  There was no mask there; only cool and balanced control, coupled with the keenest observation.  But Julius imagined that Waldron’s close-set lips relaxed a little as he stared at Dorothy.