The three were stricken dumb by the presence of the bridal thing.  Nanna, listening outside the door, attributed their silence to an appreciation too profound for utterance.

They looked at it, and it looked at them.  Its veil of myrtle, trembling yet with the shock of its entrance, gave it the semblance of movement and of life.  It towered in the majesty of its insistent whiteness.  It trailed its mystic modesties before them.  Its brittle blossoms quivered like innocence appalled.  The wide cleft at its base betrayed the black and formidable heart beneath the fair and sugared surface.  These crowding symbols, perceptible to Edith’s subtler intelligence, massed themselves in her companions’ minds as one vast sensation of discomfort.

As usual when he was embarrassed, Majendie laughed.

“It’s the very spirit of dyspepsia,” he said.  “A cold and dangerous thing. Must we eat it?”

“You must,” said Edith; “Nanna would weep if you didn’t.”

“I don’t think I can—­possibly,” said Anne, who was already reaping her sowing to the winds of emotion in a whirlwind of headache.

“Let’s all eat it—­and die,” said Majendie.  He hacked, laid a ruin of fragments round the evil thing, scattered crumbs on all their plates, and buried his own piece in a flower-pot.  “Do you think,” he said, “that Nanna will dig it up again?”

Anne turned white over her tea, pleaded her headache, and begged to be taken to her room.  Majendie took her there.

“Isn’t Anne well?” asked Edith anxiously, when he came back.

“Oh, it’s nothing.  She’s been seedy all day, and the sight of that cake finished her off.  I don’t wonder.  It’s enough to upset a strong man.  Let’s ring for Nanna to take it away.”

He rang.  When Nanna appeared Edith was eating her crumbs ostentatiously, as if unwilling to leave the last of a delicious thing.

“Oh, Nanna,” said she, “that’s a heavenly wedding-cake!”

Majendie was reminded of the habitual tender perfidy of that saint, his sister.  She was always lying to make other people happy, saying that she had everything she wanted, when she hadn’t, and that her spine didn’t hurt her, when it did.  When Edith was too exhausted to lie, she would look at you and smile, with the sweat of her torture on her forehead.  He knew Edith, and wondered how far she had lied to Anne, and what she had done it for.  He had a good mind to ask her; but he shrank from “dashing her down the first day.”

But Edith herself dashed everything down the first five minutes.  There was nothing that she shrank from.

“I’m sorry for poor Anne,” said she; “but it’s nice to get you all to myself again.  Just for once.  Only for once.  I’m not jealous.”

He smiled, and stroked her hair.

“I was jealous—­oh, furiously jealous, just at first, for five minutes.  But I got over it.  It was so undignified.”