“Damn us?  Why?” inquired Dorothy, raising her eyes.

“Oh, for all that sin we were born in,” said Ruyven, absently.

“But that’s not fair,” said Dorothy.

“Are you smarter than a clergyman?” sneered Ruyven.

Dorothy spread the white silk stocking over one knee.  “I don’t know,” she sighed, “sometimes I think I am.”

“Pride,” commented Cecile, complacently.  “Pride is sin, so there you are, Dorothy.”

“There you are, Dorothy!” said I, laughing from the doorway; and, “Oh, Cousin Ormond!” they all chorused, scrambling up to greet me.

“Have a care!” cried Dorothy.  “That is my wedding petticoat!  Oh, he’s slopped water on it!  Benny, you dreadful villain!”

“No, he hasn’t,” said I, coming out to greet her and Cecile, with Samuel and Benny hanging to my belt, and Harry fast hold of one arm.  “And what’s all this about wedding finery?  Is there a bride in this vicinity?”

Dorothy held out a stocking.  “A bride’s white silken hose,” she said, complacently.

“Embroidered on the knee with the bride’s initials,” added Cecile, proudly.

“Yours, Dorothy?” I demanded.

“Yes, but I shall not wear them for ages and ages.  I told you so last night.”

“But I thought Dorothy had best make ready,” remarked Cecile.  “Dorothy is to carry that fan and wear those slippers and this petticoat and the white silk stockings when she weds Sir George.”

“Sir George who?” I asked, bluntly.

“Why, Sir George Covert.  Didn’t you know?”

I looked at Dorothy, incensed without a reason.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, ungraciously.

“Why didn’t you ask me?” she replied, a trifle hurt.

I was silent.

Cecile said:  “I hope that Dorothy will marry him soon.  I want to see how she looks in this petticoat.”

“Ho!” sneered Harry, “you just want to wear one like it and be a bridesmaid and primp and give yourself airs.  I know you!”

“Sir George Covert is a good fellow,” remarked Ruyven, with a patronizing nod at Dorothy; “but I always said he was too old for you.  You should see how gray are his temples when he wears no powder.”

“He has fine eyes,” murmured Cecile.

“He’s too old; he’s forty,” repeated Ruyven.

“His legs are shapely,” added Cecile, sentimentally.

Dorothy gave a despairing upward glance at me.  “Are these children not silly?” she said, with a little shrug.

“We may be children, and we may be silly,” said Ruyven, “but if we were you we’d wed our cousin Ormond.”

“All of you together?” inquired Dorothy.

“You know what I mean,” he snapped.

“Why don’t you?” demanded Harry, vaguely, twitching Dorothy by the apron.

“Do what?”

“Wed our cousin Ormond.”

“But he has not asked me,” she said, smiling.

Harry turned to me and took my arm affectionately in his.