“You have always hated to hurt people,” Emily said.  “In some ways it’s a sign of weakness.”

“Don’t scold,” he begged.  “I know I’m not much of a fellow, but you’ll be sorry for me a little, won’t you, Emily?”

She did not melt as he had expected to the appeal in his voice.  “The thing we have to think of now,” she said, “is not being sorry for you, but how we can get Jean married before twelve o’clock tomorrow—­”

“Oh, of course we can’t.”

“Of course we can—­if we make up our minds to it, and it’s the only thing to do.”

“But nothing is ready.”

“Things can be made ready.  They can stand up in the rose drawing-room at ten, and you can give her away.”

He looked at her admiringly.  “I didn’t know that you had so much initiative.”

She might have told him that it was a quality on which she rather prided herself, but that hitherto it had not seemed to attract him.  “There are several things as yet undiscovered by you,” she remarked casually, as she locked up her toys.

Watching her, he wondered idly if there were really worlds to discover in Emily.  It might be interesting to—­find out—.

“Shall you miss me?” he asked.

“Of course.  And now if you’ll see that the back shutters are barred, we’ll be ready to go.”

Thus she checked his small attempt at sentiment, and on the way home they talked about Jean.  “If Derry goes, you and she must live together in my house.  Let that be understood.  I’d rather have her with you than with anyone else in the whole wide world.”

Thus again the sacred charge, but this time not as a favor, but in lordly fashion, as one who claims a right.

Jean and Derry were having tea at the club, but could not be reached by phone.  “They had probably motored out into the country,” Emily decided.  “We’ll have to do things before they come.”

The things that she did were stupendous.

She had a florist up in two hours—­and the rose-colored drawing room was rosier than ever, and as fragrant as a garden.

She telephoned the clergyman—­“At ten o’clock tomorrow.”

She telephoned the caterer—­“A wedding breakfast—­”

She telephoned the dressmaker—­“Miss McKenzie’s gown—­”

She telephoned Margaret and Marion Gray—.

“Is there anyone else?” she asked the Doctor.  “I suppose we really ought to tell the General.”

“Certainly not.”

“But Bronson—?  Derry will want him.”

“If he can keep a secret—­yes.”

Jean and Derry, arriving after dark, were swept into a scene of excitement.

Florists on the stairs!

A frenzied dressmaker waiting with Jean’s wedding gown!

Maids with mops and men with vacuums!

Julia and the cook helping at loose ends and dinner late!

What did it all mean?

“It means,” said the Doctor, “that you are going to be married, my dear, at ten o’clock in the morning.”