“I am a fool!” she said to herself, half angrily, as she bundled all the white silk and the rich lace unceremoniously away into an empty drawer of her wardrobe.  “I am a fool to say such things even to Marion.  It looks, as she says, as if I were being forced into a rich marriage by my friends.  I am very fond of John; I shall make him a most exemplary wife, and I shall look remarkably well in the family diamonds, and that is all that can possibly be required of me.”

Having thus settled things comfortably in her own mind, she went downstairs again, and was in such good spirits, and so radiant with smiles for the rest of the evening, that Mr. Daintree remarked to his wife, when they had retired into their conjugal chamber, that he had never seen Vera look so well or so happy.

“Dear child,” he said, “it is a great comfort to me to see it, for just at first I feared that she had been influenced by the money and the position, and that her heart was not in it; but now she has evidently become much attached to Sir John, and is perfectly happy; and he is a most excellent man, and in every way worthy of her.  Did I tell you, Marion, that he told me the chancel should be begun immediately after the wedding?  It is a pity it could not have been done before; but we shall just get it finished by Easter.”

“I am glad of that.  We must fill the church with flowers for the 27th, and then its appalling ugliness will not be too visible.  Of course, the building could hardly have been begun in the middle of winter.”

But if Mrs. Eustace Daintree differed at all from her husband upon the subject of her sister’s serene and perfect happiness, she, like a wise woman, kept her doubts to herself, and spoke no word of them to destroy the worthy vicar’s peace of mind upon the subject.

The next morning Sir John came down from the Hall to the vicarage with a cloud upon his brow, and requested Vera to grant him a few minutes’ private conversation.  Vera put on her sable cloak and hat, and went out with him into the garden.

“What is the matter?”

“I am exceedingly vexed with my brother,” he answered.

“What has Maurice done?”

“He tells me this morning that he will not stop for the wedding, nor be my best man.  He talks of going away to-morrow.”

Vera glanced at him.  He looked excessively annoyed; his face, usually so kind and placid, was ruffled and angry; he flicked the grass impatiently with his stick.

“I have been talking to him for an hour, and cannot get him to change his mind, or even to tell me why he will not stay; in fact, he has no good reason for going.  He must stay.”

“Does it matter very much?” she asked, gently.

“Of course it matters.  My mother is not able to be present; it would not be prudent after her late attack of bronchitis.  My only brother surely might make a point of being at my wedding.”