The charm of that party was its homelike, almost patriarchal character.  A Saturday had been chosen to suit everybody’s convenience, and the fickle June weather was kind to them.  One long table was set out on the flags, in the shade of the house wall, close to the kitchen and the hot dishes; and the meal, which was substantial and lavish, lasted from about half-past three till five o’clock.  Dale sat at the head of the table with his wife and the newly married couple; then there were a coachman and his daughter, and the higgler’s best man; then Norah Veale and the children, and further off Mrs. Goudie, the dairymaid, and all the men from the yard.  Mr. Bates had been asked, but he would not come.  Abe Veale came unasked, to Nora’s shame and indignation.

“I thought,” he said, “as Norrer’s true farder, and owing my life to him who is her adapted farder, and so well beknown to Miss Parsons, that I wouldn’t be otherwise than welcome.”

“You are welcome,” said Dale quietly.  “Be seated.”  And Norah felt intensely grateful to Dale and intensely disgusted with her parent.

They ate and drank and laughed; and Norah was sweet with the children, taking them away before they had gorged themselves.  Outside the shadow of the wall one had the vivid beauty of flowers, the perfume of fruit, and the lively play of the sunlight; with glimpses through the foliage of smooth meadow, sloped arable, and distant heath; the firm ground beneath them, the open sky above them, and all around them the contented atmosphere of home.  All these things together confirmed Mavis in the feeling that she had reached the apotheosis of her party-giving.

At the bottom of the table there was of course slight excess.  The fun down there became rather broad.  And old Mrs. Goudie made jokes which she reserved solely for weddings, and which she had better have kept to herself even then.

Dale proposed the bride’s health, and spoke in the dignified easy style of a man who is accustomed to addressing large audiences, but who is tactfully able to reduce the compass of his voice and the weight of his manner for friendly informal gatherings.  He was only heavy—­and not a bit too heavy—­when he thanked Mary for the kindness she had always shown to him and his.  Then he pointed to the gold locket that was his wedding present, and said that when she wore that round her neck, as she was wearing it now, “it reposed on a loyal, faithful heart.”  This caused Mary to weep.

The opening of the higgler’s speech was in deplorable taste—­all about widowers making the best husbands.  He said, “Widowers know what to expect; so they ain’t disappointed.  And if they’ve suffered in their first venture, it’s an easy job for Number Two to please ’em;” and he winked to right and left.  Mavis and Dale were looking uncomfortable.  Fortunately, however, the speech improved toward the end of it.

“All I ask of Mary is to look nice—­and that she can’t help doing, bless her bonny face; to speak nice—­and that she can do if she tries, and copies Mrs. Dale; and to act nice—­and in that she’ll have an example under her eyes, for I mean to act uncommon nice to her.”